Was It Worth It?
by eruptingearth
Summary: AU - Sherlock is at Oxford University, where he meets Ivy Coates. But what happens when temptations are put into the equation? Romance between Sherlock/OC, some smut later on in the story. ON HAITUS.
1. Chapter One

_So, this is my first fanfic! Don't expect much (I beg you) because even though I've read a few already on here, I'm still wary that I'm new to actually writing them.  
>I don't own most of the characters mentioned in this fanfic - most of them were created by those who created the BBC version of 'Sherlock', but of course my OC is original, and later on in the story I'll introduce some more of my own characters as well.<br>Anyway, this story is set in an AU; Sherlock is at university. I have tried to keep all the characters in, well, character.  
>Rating is M for language, future slash scenes and also some attempted rape later on - not wanting to spoil too much of the plot though!<br>I'll also try and update it as often as I can - I apologise in advance if I don't get a new chapter up for a while, but I've just started on my AS levels at the moment and already the work is taking it's toll on me!_

_Anyway, please read and review and tell me what you think?_

_(This chapter is quite long, and I apologise for that - I'm just trying to introduce Sherlock, John and Ivy altogether and save using three chapters for introductions. Sorry!)  
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><p><span>Chapter One<span>

The sun lingered in the sky over the late August afternoon. Oxford University was brimming with students, new and old, pulling along suitcases, hugging parents and laughing with friends. Someone was actually shrieking with excitement. Sherlock Holmes stared down at them from his third-storey dormitory, observing as much as he could (which was pretty much everything) about the crowds down below. Some of them would be in his lectures; some will pass him and not notice him. But, most likely, some will hate him. In fact, most will hate him sooner or later. Everyone does.

He turned back to face his dormitory. It was a box. Two beds, two desks, two wardrobes. One window. One bathroom. The smell of fresh paint stung his nostrils. Unfortunately, he was expecting his new roommate to saunter through the door, come up with some pathetic excuse for small talk and realise he had received his worst nightmare for a roommate – a '_freak'_. Sherlock could almost hear the insults already. It was always the same, even when he was at primary school, and then secondary school. Every boarding school his parents had shipped him off to assigned Sherlock to a roommate, and every roommate reacted the same way.

Sherlock Holmes didn't belong to anyone. He was fine by himself, anyway. He didn't _need_ anyone, and no one needed him.

All Sherlock needed were his studies. It was his studies that got him through primary school and into any boarding school in the country. It was his studies that got him the graduation he needed. It was his studies that got him a place at Oxford. He could have used his family name to determine a place at Cambridge, like his father and his brother, but Cambridge never appealed to Sherlock. Why should he follow his family name just because he _can_? Where's the _challenge_ in that? Oxford was a much more practical choice, much to the dismay of his family. It was only an hour away from London by train and it was still in the top five universities in the United Kingdom. He had the grades to get into anywhere, but it was Oxford that appealed to him the most.

He felt a twinge of happiness when a wave of realisation swept through him. He picked up his heavy black suitcase and flung it onto one of the beds and started to unpack. Shirts, jackets, trousers, shoes: they all had their rightful place. He was almost done when a guttural sound came from the doorway to the stairwell. He looked up and groaned.

"What are you doing here?" He snapped, turning his back on him to tuck the suitcase under his new bed.

"Can't I come and wish my younger brother good luck?" Mycroft Holmes stood leaning against a large purple umbrella, blocking the doorway as he did so. He was looking around the beige-coloured box in a mild disgust. "I have to say, Sherlock, even the halls of residence at Cambridge were better than this."

Sherlock clenched his teeth and finally turned to stare at his brother. "I would much rather prefer it if you left, Mycroft," he growled, "I don't particularly want my first day at university to be spoilt by your insufferable presence."

"Sherlock, there is no need to be so negative."

"There is if you're involved."

"You know how Mother would not like it if she learnt how you have acted with me –"

"And I'm sure she wouldn't like it if she learnt how you caused my behaviour, either."

"She was very upset when you told her you didn't want her here today, Sherlock."

"So she sent you down here instead."

"We're all concerned for you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You needn't be."

Mycroft sighed. "Denial is never a good thing, Sherlock. Today could have happened two years ago if you hadn't been so –"

"Your _concern_ is wasted, I'm afraid."

Mycroft chuckled to himself. "You may think so, but I'm afraid that isn't the case. We will be watching you, my dear brother – "

"Oh, I don't doubt that."

"– and we all wish you to have a pleasant year," the older Holmes gave his brother a smile that was like a bullet from a gun before turning to leave – but before he closed the door fully and Sherlock was free once again, the door swung again and Mycroft's smug face appeared once again. "Oh, and _do_ try to stay out of trouble, Sherlock – I'm sure you've noticed the sudden change in Father's blood pressure." And with that, the door _clicked!_ shut and Sherlock Holmes was alone once again.

He stared at the door for seconds afterwards as Mycroft's footsteps were drowned out by the distorted noises from the stairwell beyond. He flickered his gaze back out the window and almost instantly spied the thinning-haired head of his older brother, sauntering through the crowds with his umbrella – despite the clear skies and August sun – swinging in his grip. Sherlock stared at him in disgust as Mycroft reached a black limousine with a curvy brunette standing in front of it, a mobile phone plastered in her hand. Without looking up from the phone, the brunette opened the car door for the older man, and for a millisecond, Sherlock swore Mycroft brushed his fingers across the woman's thigh – but instantly shrugged it away as the brunette climbed in afterwards and closed the door, and the limousine pulled away.

As he stood in the middle of his new home, Sherlock blocked out all the noises from outside the window and the door and shamefully let his anger shoot through him like tidal waves. His fists were clenched so hard that his knuckles were whiter than his exceptionally pale skin, and he thought the indents from his fingernails were going to be permanent. He knew he shouldn't let his brother get to him like this, but it didn't help the fact that Mycroft knew exactly how to press his buttons. It was maddening. All his life, Sherlock was always in Mycroft's shadow – and despite what Sherlock knew, Mycroft was his parents' pride and joy. They seemed to always be a lot stricter on Sherlock – maybe that was what made him lash out. Sherlock was almost never confused, but some things were a complete mystery to him – and even his own emotions were one of them. He didn't know why he felt this way when he came to his family – but he did know that one day he was determined to figure it out.

Sherlock's stewing was fortunately cut short, when the automatic lock on the dormitory's door shifted and the door opened. A bulky man strode in, pulling along a suitcase and carrying a sports bag on his left shoulder. His short brown hair was pushed back carelessly and his t-shirt had some sort of designer logo stretched across his chest almost obscenely obviously. He glanced once at Sherlock before dropping his stuff on the spare bed on the other side of the room.

Sherlock watched him. He was obviously some sort of sports player – rugby, by the look of his stature – with a family made of money. The fact that all of his possessions – and that means _all_ – had some kind of designer name on them gave Sherlock this impression. Finally, his new roommate turned and smiled at him and held out his hand.

"I'm Sebastian Wilkes," he said. His voice was deep. The word _conceited _came to Sherlock's hard-working brain.

Sherlock gave him a quick smile back, shook his hand and added, "I'm Sherlock Holmes," before retreating back to his own bed and continued to finish unpacking his books onto his desk. He didn't care to organise them, and just left them in disarrayed piles.

Sebastian did the same, instead he arranged his so they were in alphabetical – by surname of author, of course, Sherlock observed. From the look of the titles, he also concluded that he was studying something to do with economics.

The silence in the room was overwhelming. Sherlock knew before any conversations, of course, that the differences between him and his new roommate were going to obvious soon enough. Sherlock didn't care for sports or designer clothing, for example. And he definitely couldn't deny the dread that consumed him when Sebastian started the first conversation between them.

"I can't believe I'm finally at Oxford!" He began, clapping his hands together, his eyes darting about the room. Sherlock carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "My family have always come here – my grandfather, my uncle, my father, my mother, and both my sisters, and now me. My parents met here, you know. Of course I had to carry on the family customs – I had my eye on Durham for a while, but I guess I'm a sucker for tradition." Sebastian chuckled and sat down on his bed and carried on, "I couldn't believe it when I got the grades, too. It was a fucking _miracle_! Seriously, man, you do not know the pressure I was under on that results day – I don't know what I would've done if I didn't get in here, my dad would've gone ape-shit."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He could see another difference – Sebastian liked talking about himself, and Sherlock couldn't care less.

"I had to put my foot down about the course though. Dad wanted me to go into sciences or something, but I've always liked money and why would I go into sciences if I like money and there's a perfectly good course for economics? My uncle works in the financial district in London and he studied economics and managing and he's well high-up in what he does – Dad wasn't entirely happy that I wasn't going to become a doctor or whatever like him, but he should be happy I'm actually doing something other than rugby."

Sherlock stole himself a smug smile. He went over and sat at his desk as Sebastian babbled on. Sherlock zoned himself out until his roommate's pompous voice was just white noise in the background, and settled himself into starting an experiment involving dog hair, hydrochloric acid and a tanning bulb.

After a while, Sherlock realised that Sebastian had gone quiet. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed the confused look on his roommate's usually smug face.

"What _are_ you doing?" were the first words Sebastian had said that weren't about himself since he had walked into the dormitory.

"Experiment," Sherlock merely said, turning back to his pipette of acid. He had learnt not to talk about his experiments in too much detail throughout the years – the details usually disgusted and repelled others, and after years of Sherlock's mother begging him to take others' feelings into account, he felt he would save Sebastian from the explanation.

Sebastian continued to look both afraid and puzzled but left Sherlock to it. He pretended to check the time, grabbed his jacket and left. And before Sherlock knew what he was doing, as soon as the door closed, he grinned smugly to himself and let out a laugh.

...

Ivy Coates made her way to the block of dormitories that would soon become her home for at least the next year. The entire campus was bustling with fellow students, and it seemed all of them had arrived with at least _someone_ – but Ivy was alone. She couldn't deny that some small part of her envied those girls with crying mothers, or even the boys with rough handshakes from fathers. But that was only a very small part of her. If she had wanted someone to embrace her and make a fuss, she wouldn't have denied her older brother, Zach, the opportunity to accompany her on the train and make the fuss she kept on witnessing as she walked through the campus. God knows he wanted to.

Finally, she arrived at the door of her halls of residence. The building was beautiful – traditional Oxford University architecture and with stone the colour of sand. The only downside was that it was positively full to capacity with students and their families, much like the campus outside – though she knew it was only because it was the first day of the new year. Christmas was a long time away for most people.

She pushed her way through the crowds and carried her suitcases up the staircase. Thankfully, her assigned dormitory was only on the second floor. As she made her way up the flight of stairs, she kept her eyes out for anything that could potentially harm her: she saw that most of the residence out in the corridors and stairwells were actually male, and as she dodged a flying football, she almost fell right into a tall older man in a tweed suit with an umbrella.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" She apologised loudly over the din of chatter, stepping back and keeping her head down.

"Not at all, it's hardly your fault," The man in the tweed suit replied haughtily, gripping tightly onto his umbrella. _Strange,_ thought Ivy, _it's hardly going to rain today_.

She looked up to smile once again at him, but found that he was already on the next stair case going down. Shrugging, she carried on up the stairs until she came to her room – Room 206, one of the first on the second storey. She quickly unlocked the door and stepped inside, and sighed with content when she dropped all of her bags on the floor in the middle of the room. Directly opposite the door was a large window, overlooking the campus below. Even though it was afternoon, the crowds were still arriving. There was only a few cars leaving – one of which was a black limousine. _Pretentious_ was the first word to come to Ivy's mind.

The rest of the room was exceptionally plain. The two beds, on opposite ends of the square room, were grey from a mattress with no sheets, and each were accompanied with a desk and a wardrobe. The layout of the room was almost as if someone had drawn an invisible line down the centre, creating two identical halves. Even both sides had a wooden door – the only difference was the position of them. The right side had the door to the stairwell, right next to the bed, whereas the left side had the door to the bathroom, at the end of the bed. By the look of it, her roommate hadn't arrived yet, so fortunately, Ivy had first pick of what bed she wanted – the left side.

She had just begun to unpack when there was a sharp knock at the door. Ivy sharply turned to see a stout woman, in an outfit that made her look far too frumpy, staring at a clipboard. Her greying hair was pulled up in a small neat bun, with absolutely no frays, and her thinned lips were pursed so tightly, Ivy thought she was trying to permanently get rid of her lips altogether.

"Miss Coates?" The woman finally looked up. Her eyes were grey and emotionless, and her voice was as precise as her hairdo.

"Erm, yes?" Ivy tried to smile.

"You're a lucky girl today, Miss Coates," it seemed to Ivy that the woman was also trying to smile, too, "the other girl who was going to be sharing with you has just called to say that she won't be joining us in halls until Christmas."

"Oh!" relief washes through Ivy as the woman writes something on her clipboard and leaves, closing the door behind her. At least she could put off being forced actual human interaction for at least a few months.

Surprisingly, unpacking didn't take as long as she thought. After what appeared to be in no time, she stepped back and admired her organisation – she had brought every book she could carry, and they were all in alphabetical order from the author's surname on her desk, as well as her workbooks and files. Her clothes were all hung up neatly in the wardrobe, and the bed was made with her favourite sheets from home. It still lacked character, though, but for the first day of university, she hadn't done a bad job.

She sighed and found her new timetable for the year. It listed all the lectures, her professors and what rooms and it all seemed so… _daunting_ to her. She hoped to God that she could deal with it all – she hoped that her lecturers were nice and the work wasn't too much. It had taken a lot out of her to get this far. She had pretty much sacrificed any life at all when she was taking her A-levels to make sure she got the grades, and she doesn't think _anyone_ could understand the pure happiness that had sparked in her when she had when that envelope dropped through the letterbox of her brother's house, when she opened it and read that absolutely marvellous sentence that determined her fate.

That morning, she cried with happiness for the first time in what seemed like years.

...

"I _can't_ believe my little brother is going to Oxford University!" Harriet Watson literally shrieked as she gave her brother the tenth hug that day.

John Watson blushed and picked up his bags. Just like what seemed like everyone else at Oxford that day, he was standing just outside the building where his dormitory was waiting for him, saying his final goodbyes to his family. He could feel the others surrounding him and his sister and his sister's girlfriend – Clara, was it? – as Harry screamed and hugged and made it extremely clear how proud she was of him. It was odd – normally, Harry didn't care one bit about John, but today, it was almost as if she had been replaced with someone completely different. John hated it, he hated this new Harry, and he hated how awkward Clara was just standing there, averting her eyes everywhere but the people she was actually with. He knew they didn't have to come, but he couldn't go against his sister's insists.

"Ok, ok, we'll let you go," Harry squealed again. "But, _Oxford_, John! Oxford!" She squeezed her brother once again, before slowly retreating. John caught her eye and saw something even more unfamiliar to her behaviour. "John, keep safe, _if you know what I mean_." She winked, and hugged him again. John's cheeks burned even more.

She turned to Clara and, fortunately for John, was about to leave, when she turned again to face him, and added, "Oh and don't forget about your studies when you're out getting drunk – just because you're in Oxford, doesn't mean you'll graduate. And a bit of advice: weed is actually healthier for the brain than alcohol," she winked again and walked again, lacing her fingers with Clara's. She only turned once to wave.

John exhaled in relief. The families around him didn't notice him too much, so he made his way to his dormitory. Room 123 – nice and easy to remember. As he made his way through the crowded building, the anxiety boiled inside his gut. Harry had distracted him all morning on the way to Oxford, but now that she was gone, he remembered all about his worries: what was is roommate going to be like? What about his studies? Did he actually have what it takes to graduate from _Oxford University_, one of the most prestigious universities in the United Kingdom? He groaned internally as he reached his dormitory.

When he unlocked his door, he found that his roommate had actually already arrived. He was greeted by a chubby man with glasses wearing a sweater vest. Shamefully, John actually thought he resembled somewhat of a pig. John smiled, and his roommate smiled back, holding out a stumpy hand. John took it and introduced himself.

"Hi, John, I'm Mike. Mike Stamford." Mike smiled, revealing a smile with short, square teeth. John wondered whether he had ever lost his baby teeth. "Sorry – I hope you mind I helped myself to the bed nearest to the bathroom." He was a Geordie.

"No, I don't mind at all!" John dropped his bags on the spare bed and felt his shoulders thank him for the loss of weight.

"So, what're studying, John?" John could almost detect a glimmer of hope in Mike's voice.

"Erm, biomedical sciences – you?"

Mike's eyes shone brighter. "_Me too_! I was hoping I'd find someone who might be in the same lectures as me!"

John smiled at his roommate. He seemed nice enough – and he had to admit, he could have done a lot worse. Perhaps there wasn't any reason for John to be as anxious as he was in the stairwell.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Night had crept up on the students at Oxford University relatively quickly. The fussing families had retreated a couple of hours before the sun had began to set, and as soon as the last car drove away, several rumours of first-night-parties had spread like wildfire across the campus.

Ivy ignored the rumours. She hadn't gotten to where she was by partying, and she definitely didn't want to lapse into _that_ – at least, not now, anyway. Constant advice from A-level teachers had been carved into her brain: _get on top of work now, and be rewarded later_. She had gotten through her A-levels just fine, and she was determined to get through university just the same. She _had_ to.

She sighed and closed her eyes. But what is the work _was _too much? She did have to work extremely hard just to get through her A-levels, and even then she had just barely made the mark – _and_ everyone says university is even more difficult. Maybe she's bitten off more than she can chew. She groaned into her pillow. It still had the faint scent of her brother's house fighting against the smell of her new dormitory. A tiny remnant of the closest thing she's ever had of 'home'. She turned back onto her side, facing the wall, and thought; maybe, she had made the wrong choice going to Oxford. Even just being there for merely five hours, she could see that the entire campus was made up of lords and ladies with brains the size of Antarctica. She'll stick out like a sore thumb.

She bit her lip and rolled over to face the other bed. The room was swallowed by silence, it was almost deafening, and the only source of light being from the golden glow of a lamp outside. She sighed again, trying to find sleep. She just wished she felt tired enough for at least a couple of hours of sleep to consume her. Again, she closed her eyes tightly shut, just when a huge _clunk! _sounded from the room directly above her. She immediately assumed she was unlucky enough to have the dorm straight below a party – _no wonder my supposed roommate got out as soon as she can_, she thought. But there was no music, just… what sounded like angry grumbles through the plaster. And footsteps. No, it didn't sound like a party. Maybe she was wrong. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. The grumbles continued, getting marginally louder by the second – some sort of argument, distorted through the plaster.

She sighed once more, this time more annoyed. As another clunk and what sounded like a groan clattered down, muffled, she kicked the duvet off her and stood up. Her bare feet felt the cold of the wooden floor like bare hands in a snowball fight. Shivering, she looks outside. The night was as clear as the day had been – but it was eerie to look out of the same window and not see as many people as before. In fact, as she looked out now, there was absolutely no one around outside. The streetlamp directly outside cast out orange light across the paved courtyard below, once bustling to it's brim with people but is now silently empty.

No smoking inside halls.

She walked over to her wardrobe and searched for her coat. It was thick, warm, with a belt that clinched at the waist. As she buttoned herself up, she cupped the packet of cigarettes in her pocket and smiled to herself. She adds her key to the same pocket, before heading out, not wanting to be locked out of her own dormitory.

She tried to close her own door quietly, and the _click!_ sounded in unison to one directly above hers, but before her eyes landed on anyone else in the stairwell, she hurried downwards and out of the main door, into the cool, late summer night air. On a night like that, the fresh air felt as though it freed Ivy from whatever thoughts had glued themselves to her skin. She took a deep breath and brought one of the cigarettes to her lips, gripped it, and lit it using her lighter. It was almost out of fuel. She takes a small drag and manoeuvred herself towards a bench over on one of the courtyard's edges. She slowly smoked the cigarette, savouring it, the taste on her tongue and the feel of the smoke relaxing her. She didn't know how long it took her to realise that someone had joined her on the bench. She glances over. A man – about the same age as herself – as perched on the other end, looking relaxed and alert at the same time. He catches her eye. She smiles.

"Do you mind if I have one?" He asks. His voice was rich, velvety.

"Um, go ahead," Ivy dug for the packet in her pocket and handed it, and her lighter, over to him. Her companion took them, thanking her, and they were quickly given back to her.

She tried to make the cigarette last. She always did. She hated smoking by herself – smoking _casually_ with others is what made it fun, and she always felt as though she looked like those awful single mothers at bus stops when she smoked on her own. Though, it was almost as if that night was different; she felt like she had needed this cigarette, this taste, this feeling. Maybe it was the stress of going to university, maybe it was not being able to sleep – she couldn't decide. But she was determined she wasn't going to gobble this fag and chain-smoke through the packet because she was dissatisfied.

She was almost finished the cigarette when she noticed he was staring at her. She looked up at him, just as his voice echoed through the courtyard once again.

"How did you get served for cigarettes when you were only fifteen?"

Ivy blinked, taken aback by his abruptness. "I, erm… wait, how the hell do know _that_?"

The man smirked at her. Even in the dim light, Ivy could see most of his striking features: his hair was dishevelled, dark, and curly, contrasting against his pale white skin, and almost covering his eyes – his ice blue eyes, that seemed to be calculating things constantly; he even had cheekbones so defined that shadows were being cast underneath them. His smirk seemed almost _smug_ to Ivy, as if he was _expecting_ her to ask how.

"Quite simple," was his mere reply, still staring at her.

Ivy stared back, strangely (how shamefully clichéd) feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She tore her gaze away, stubbed her cigarette out on the bench's arm, and retreated back to her dormitory, trying to forget the sight of… _confusion_ on the man's face as she left.

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><p><em>Read and review please?<em>


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The biggest library at Oxford was inevitably Sherlock's favourite. It was rather large, with grand bookcases stretching on and towering tall over the studying students. The reading material was vast, and if there were a certain book wanted, it would be more than likely somewhere in the immense room.

Sherlock had marvelled at the luxurious collection, but it hadn't taken him two minutes to figure out the system and find the section he needed. He had stridden past others, straight to the biology section and picked out the first book he laid his hands on from the shelf. It was fairly large, heavy – definitely one of the largest in the assortment – with a dull red and black cover and yellowing pages. Without looking at it properly, he had _known_ that book he had picked out, even how many chapters it had, simply because he had read it before, when he was thirteen and staying with his family over Christmas break.

He sighed as he turned another page. As much as he absolutely adored reading about cutting up cadavers, reading the same book just for the sake of it was incredibly tedious. He knew he could have just chosen another, but after a week of visiting the library almost everyday since the start of university, he had read every book in the biology section that seemed to spark any interest in him. He set the book down on the mahogany table in front of his seat, still open on his page, and let his eyes dart around the room. He had to admit, he was impressed by the architecture of the room – each bookcase was perfectly aligned and tall enough for the masterfully plastered ceiling to be seen from the study tables below. Though, despite the library having the biggest collection of books and the best presentation, Sherlock's favourite thing about this particular one was how quiet it was. The smaller libraries couldn't hold quite as many students; if the same amount of students where he was now were to go and stand in another library, it would be like a busy day on a London street. Thankfully, this library wasn't as easily accessible as the smaller ones, which were dotted around near the lecture halls, and thus, not many people put the effort out to take advantage of Oxford's wonderful gift – and this could only cause deserted aisles, dark corners, and unfortunately, dusty books.

Sherlock didn't mind about the dust – in fact, it was more of a comfort to him. He always functioned better when he was alone, and the dust just made that fact even more clear to him. So did the deserted aisles. He was perfectly content with settling down with a book in the deepest corners of the labyrinth of bookcases if there was no one there to disturb him. People were constantly disturbing him from his studies, but he didn't bother finding the effort and conversing with anyone. In fact, he had only communicated with a selected few people on his own volition since his first year started – his lecturers, when needed (which, actually, hadn't been that often), the waitress at the university café, Sebastian (though, Sherlock wasn't best pleased whenever such contact was made), and not to mention the young woman on the bench – she, of course, had acted just like the rest of them: hostile when Sherlock tried to make conversation. Because he _had_ made the effort. He had given up trying after that. If no one wanted to talk to him, he won't talk to anyone either.

Everyone just ignored him, anyway. Unlike at boarding school, he wasn't the punch line of any derogatory jokes, and no one had tripped him up and made him drop his books – _yet_. He knew it was a matter of time before someone started something. It most likely would be Sebastian – after all, he was the one that could potentially see Sherlock at his most vulnerable, the one _closest_ to him.

Sherlock despised it.

He would be alert though. Throughout his secondary school years, he had of course become immune to such snide remarks and even the odd physical harassment, and he knew he could deal with it at university just the same. Such things didn't stop him from reaching the best grades in each school before, and they wouldn't stop him from his studies at Oxford, either.

He stared at the other students through the gaps through the bookcases. They were all more mature than his 'peers' at boarding school, anyway – it definitely didn't take a genius to figure _that _out. He did, however, know that the chemistry student in the next aisle didn't make it back to his own bed last night, and some how had managed to find himself entangled with the blonde physicist, who was actually walking down said aisle for the third time in twenty minutes, meriting the same reaction from the chemist – a lick of the lips and a stalk from his droopy eyes. He also knew that someone actually was carrying weed around in their bag, buried beneath, what he imagined was, scraps of fabric and newspaper. Though somewhat undetectable to 'normal' nostrils, Sherlock's high-functioning senses picked up on that sickly scent.

As he watched the very few students who had gradually joined him that morning, his boredom grew even more unbearable. He sighed again and snapped the book shut and gracefully slid it into his grasp and went to deliver it back to its original location. He needn't had noticed the odd boy-shaped lump on the floor in the biology aisle, stepping over it – him – as he stopped abruptly and slid the book back onto the shelf. His eyes darted across the shelves, searching for a title that screamed and promised to be interesting.

Though it wasn't a book that caught his attention; instead, the lump on the floor shifted the sound of a throat being cleared filled the aisle.

"Sorry, is this the book you're looking for?" The other boy asked, a tiny twinge of apologetic in his voice. He held up a thick paper-back, fairly newly printed, a bit rough at the edges.

Sherlock stared at the book and then back at the boy. He was smaller than Sherlock and his sandy hair was cut quite short and he stood with a straight, precise posture – it screamed 'military', though _he_ wasn't old enough but that didn't rule out a military upbringing. An ink smudge on his palm, right under his thumb – hurryingly handwriting something, the fact that it resembles the name "Sarah" also fits with the slight scent of roses. Much like himself, this other boy would prefer isolation when it came to studying, otherwise he wouldn't be resorting to _the floor_ for reading for, what Sherlock concluded from the book he was reading, biomedical sciences.

Naturally, Sherlock deduced this in approximately 13.6 seconds. He wasn't counting, of course.

Sherlock blinked and flashed a pretended-to-be-startled smile. "Thanks very much," he replied, realising just how much lower his voice was to the blonde boy's. He reached out and took the book, and flicking through it he added, "You should ask her out."

The young blonde man simply stared at him, before awkwardly coughing and asked, "Who?"

"Sarah," Sherlock finally looked back up at his companion. "You should ask her on a date tonight – she won't be busy."

"How…?"

Sherlock smiled, but immediately remembered every single other reaction he had ever encountered and frowned slightly. Surely this wouldn't be any different.

But the other boy just stood there, a stare of determination plastered across his face – he was expecting an answer shortly. Sherlock smiled brighter and reflected over his deductions: "Your hand, there is an ink smudge that closely resembles the name of "Sarah" – it was a shot in the dark to think she was a _love interest_ but no one sends red roses to none romantic relations. The fact that the smell of the flowers if coming from your bag suggests that you're maybe embarrassed about your feelings, so it's not a romantic relationship that's gone anywhere – most probably not past the first step of actually asking her out on a date. Also, the way you've sighed more than three times in the time that I was looking for a book says that you're thinking about someone who you think you can't have – psychology can be a wonderful thing sometimes. My guess is that you've planned to ask her out, written her a card, give her the roses, but when you wrote the card... you finished it in a hurry and smudged her name onto your hand – not a particularly good start, I must admit – because of your embarrassment. Though, from first impressions, I don't think you have any reason to be afraid, your Sarah is most probably desperate for a date with you as much as you are with her."

The other boy stared at him, blinking several times. He was almost emotionless.

"Thanks again for the book," Sherlock nodded at him and began to walk away, but a sudden cry of _"Wait!"_ caused him to stop where he was at in genuine surprise. He turned to see the smaller boy gaze at him with another expression that demanded an explanation.

Sherlock sighed. "The minute details are the most important – they're the ones that allow me to deduce conclusions. It can't take too much of a genius to see that smudge does say "Sarah" and the scent of roses from the direction of your bag is quite obvious to me. The leaps weren't that difficult, I must admit. Though, I suppose I will just have to tell you, just to keep you from questioning my methods further, that I am in fact a high-functioning sociopath. Don't take it personally." He turned once more and began to walk away, the book still clutched at his side, but instead, he stopped and faced the flabbergasted boy again and mumbles, "I apologise, Jack – "

"It's John, actually." It was a quick response. "How on earth did you know _that_?"

"Your bag – 'J. Watson' is engraved on the clasp. I took another shot in the dark and this time I just so happened to be wrong… I'm Sherlock Holmes," he smiled again and held out a long pale hand. The first handshake Sherlock had began himself in years.

John took the gesture, slowly smiling back. As soon as their hands let go of each other, Sherlock spun on his heel and made his way out of the library – though his pace had slowed, and John had the sneaky suspicion that Sherlock had done that so John would follow him – and so he did. Neither of the two young men spoke, and until they reached the library doors, only the hushed whispers of students around them broke the stillness between them. It was only when they had wordlessly agreed to grab a coffee when John finally piped up.

"So, that's what you do, is it? You scare people by picking out _details _about them?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth and didn't say anything for a minute or so. At long last, he replied, "As I explained before, I observe the details, John. People go around with their eyes closed, when in actual fact, it's just as easy to find out about a person by actually _observing_ them and _deducing_ the answers from data, as it is to ask them idiotic, mundane questions."

He hears John let out some sort of muffled laugh, but strangely, he didn't expect a snide comment. John actually didn't seem like that. He stole a glance down at his shorter companion and saw something different to what he was used to – John appeared to be _intrigued _by Sherlock.

Maybe Sherlock had found someone who was actually worth his time for a long-overdue friendship.

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><p><em>Third chapter! I'm actually really enjoying writing this - just a big of fun, y'know. I'm going to try and update more during the week but I'm a bit behind on my work right now - essays, essays, essays (ew) - so I'll update as soon as I have chance to. Sorry!<em>

_Review please?_


	4. Chapter Four

_I have to apologise for the lack of updates this past week - I literally didn't have any time until now: I had work upon work to do, plus I started driving too so I had lessons for that as well. But, here it is, Chapter Four as been uploaded! I have to thank those who have added my fanfic to Story Alert - I just hope you keep liking my story!_

_I'm going to try and update more often, but it is hard to juggle my AS level work and planning and writing this. I'll also try and get the pace up a bit more; I looked over my earlier chapters and I fear it may be going a bit slow? Also, please tell me if Sherlock (or any of the other characters) aren't in character? That's my worst fear!_

_Anyway, enjoy! And maybe review, too?_

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><p><span>Chapter Four<span>

As soon as they reached the courtyard outside the library's only exit, the early September sun emerged itself from the morning cloud and its rays glinted down through the masses of browning trees. Students were still taking advantage of whatever sun there was to lounge on the grassy knolls and squares around the campus, most studying already but some were merely relaxing in the less concentrated sunshine.

Sherlock and John turn round a stone corner, heading towards the campus café. After Sherlock's explanation, neither spoke though the silence wasn't awkward – unlike most both Sherlock and John usually experience. Every so often, John would glance over at the taller one of the two, and he could feel his intrigued emotions be painted across his face, but he couldn't resist. He had never encountered someone like Sherlock – a high functioning sociopath. Did that even exist? He'd have to research it… though that didn't how this stranger knew about his failed attempts of asking Sarah out on a date. And how did he even _know_ about Sarah? John looked down at his hand. The smudge _hardly _resembled her name, and he was sure he wasn't even in any of their lectures together. It was so strange, but brilliant at the same time –

"Oh, my God, I am _so_ sorry!"

They had rounded another corner, causing Sherlock to slam straight into a slim brunette wearing a red beret and a floral tea-dress. She'd a long-fingered hand clasped to her mouth and her brown eyes were wide with shock horror. Sherlock was down on the ground, not harmed in any way at all, just shoving the books and papers back into his satchel that he had dropped in the collision. John watched the brunette as she quickly got to her bare knees and helped Sherlock with the oodles of notes and scribbles.

"Oh, it's quite alright," Sherlock managed to reply, glinting at a slight smile. He knew exactly who the girl was, of course. "You know, those cigarettes, the other night, were rather different."

The brunette finally looked up at Sherlock – and she recognised him immediately. The same hair, the cheekbones, the same eyes. Her eyes flickered up to John, and then back to Sherlock's, before grinning back and giving a little shrug with her shoulders. "They're just funny little things from Paris. I don't think you can get them in England."

"No, I didn't think they are available," Sherlock took the papers out of the girl's helping hands and stuffed them also into his bag. They rose together, and Sherlock took this chance to hold out his hand – the second handshake he'd started today. Maybe he was actually getting good at 'meeting new people'. "Sherlock Holmes."

The brunette took his hand. "I'm Ivy Coates."

John looked between both Sherlock and Ivy. It didn't take a genius to know that neither knew the other before – but they had met each other briefly. He didn't know when or for how long, but it still felt he was intruding on a meeting between very old friends. He didn't have long to ponder about this because Sherlock abruptly turned and began to introduce him.

"This is John Watson," Sherlock watched – with, was it jealousy? – as Ivy shook John's hand and they beamed at each other.

"Nice to meet you," Ivy said, politely. "So are you two on the same course?"

John opened his mouth to reply but Sherlock was faster. "No, John's studying biomedical sciences, and I'm doing biological sciences."

John stared at Sherlock, again feeling his emotions being painted across his canvas. Confusion this time – he definitely hadn't mentioned his course since he had met Sherlock, so what details had he 'deduced' in order to figure _that_ out?

Ivy gave one slow nod. "Oh, right. Listen, I am sorry for bumping into you – I just hope you haven't lost any of your notes –"

"It really is quite alright," Sherlock's voice had the tiniest twinge of annoyance in it. He didn't like repetition.

Ivy seemed to get the picture shot another sweet smile to both of the young men in front of her. "Oh, well – "

"Me and John are going for coffee, do you want to come?"

Ivy blinked and opened her mouth. "Oh, erm, I… I've got a class on actually," she hastily stammered. "Maybe some other time. It was nice to meet you two, though." And with that, she shifted her own satchel's strap on her shoulder and hurried off, her brown tousled waves swaying slightly with every step, the floral dress whipping at her thin legs, elongated by the low t-bar heels she wore.

Sherlock found his eyes watching her as she walked away. She had lied to them; she didn't have a class or a lecture on. She seemed to be more complex than he originally thought on the first night. He tore his gaze away, mentally shaking himself, and continued his pace next to John.

…

The café wasn't too packed. Sherlock and John managed to find a table free near the entrance after ordering their drinks – a milky tea for John and a black coffee with two sugars for Sherlock.

"How did you know about which course I was taking?" John suddenly blurted out. He instantly regretted it – surely Sherlock didn't like being asked constantly how he came to is conclusions.

But Sherlock smirked. Smugly. John could tell he was more arrogant than the usual student. "Your choice of books. It wasn't a difficult leap," he took a sip of his coffee before bitterly mumbling something like, "It never is."

John stared down into his mug of tea. "I suppose you know all about that Ivy, too?" It was meant to sound like casual conversation.

Sherlock's smirk flickered, but he didn't drop it, and he also stayed silent. Instead, he switched his gaze over to the door where three other students were entering. The first boy had a bulky build with short brown hair, and was wearing a rugby top. A scrawnier young man, also wearing a rugby polo, was following him, with black hair, a pale complexion and a bony hand wrapped around the third student's – a girl with a facial expression of a bulldog chewing a wasp.

The bulky one looked around, and caught his eye on Sherlock. He grinned and walked over to the table, with a very slight limp. Sherlock kept his eyes on him, but remained relaxed and continued to take the occasional sip of his coffee.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Sherlock," the young man's deep voice towered over the rest of the low hum of conversation in the café.

"Sebastian," Sherlock greeted him, with another tint of annoyance in his own deep voice. "How's the rugby? I hear you injured your ankle." The annoyance was dipped in sarcastic.

Sebastian laughed heartily. "That's right, you're doing your _thing_. Oi, Anderson! Get a load of Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly at Sebastian, as the scrawny one joined Sebastian next to the table.

"No thanks, I'm straight," he sneered, nodding towards the sour girl. Sebastian laughed again before turning towards Sherlock once more.

"Go on, Sherlock, do your trick on Anderson here," Sebastian jeered, "I'm sure he has more than one secret on show."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock calmly commented. He placed his mug down on the table and stared at the three newest participants of his company with an extremely bored expression lingering on his face.

"This guy here can tell if you've been shagging the night before," Sebastian turned to explain to Anderson and the girl. "So you and Sally better be careful –"

Anderson knocked Sebastian on the arm forcefully while the girl nervously rubbed her nose and stared at the floor. Sherlock watched them as if it was a piece of theatre.

"He probably just _watches_, Seb," Anderson jeered, glaring down at Sherlock's bored face.

Sherlock's facial expression flickered again. "Well," he began, "I'll just have to be careful not to walk in on you and Sally… or perhaps maybe you and your other girlfriend? She doesn't come to Oxford, does she?"

Anderson's scorn hastily wore away and, instead, he was wide-eyed in horror. "How the fuck do you know that, freak?" He abruptly turned to Sebastian. "Have you been talking, Seb?"

Sebastian shook his head quickly. Sally's cheeks were glowing red.

"No, your smell was the one who did the talking, Anderson," Sherlock stared at him.

"My _smell_? I'm wearing deodorant!"

"Exactly, Sally is wearing the same, but that still doesn't cover up the under layer of perfume," Sherlock felt another smug smirk. "It's not perfume from Sally, so there must be another woman – not one at Oxford by the way you were publicly displaying affection with Sally. I'm guessing it's Sally who's the 'other woman'; she didn't seem too surprised to find out about your other girlfriend."

Anderson was glaring at Sherlock in a way that John thought he was going to lunge himself at Sherlock in rage. He poised himself, ready to break up at brawls that were going to happen, but instead, Sebastian placed a firm grip on Anderson's shoulder and steered him away from the table and towards the exit. Sally hurried behind, obviously hoping no one had heard the recent dispute.

Sherlock didn't linger too long on the events and went back to sipping his coffee. He did, however, notice John staring at him. "What now?"

John opened his mouth, but then closed it again, cleared his throat and began again, "Is it because of your sociopath thing that you're incapable of normal human interaction?"

Sherlock merely stared down at the table and bit the inside of his cheek. "Tell me, John, what is _normal_ human interaction?"


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

The silence consuming Sherlock's dormitory was peaceful to him. He lay on his bed, his back up against the headboard, and the book John gave him at the library at his side. He was perfectly alone – Sebastian had bustled in before, ignored Sherlock, grabbed some more money and left. Gone to a party, Sherlock knew. He had heard the clinking of the bottles in plastic carrier bags out in the stairwell. Sherlock had watched his roommate from the corner of his eye, but made no sign of interaction with him. He had just kept his head forward, as if he was staring out the window just off from straight ahead.

As he lay there in the stillness, nothing could prevent Sherlock's mind from racing into overdrive. His thoughts shot through, all at once, and it panicked him how he couldn't order them, how he couldn't organise them. He thought about his lectures, his notes, meeting John at the library, his past week at Oxford, the first day, his brother's visit, the first ever night at Oxford, and Ivy. Sherlock's lips flickered slightly at the thought of her. He didn't understand it – absolutely no one had enticed him in the way that she had enticed him, allured him, _intrigued _him. This definitely was one of the very rare things that genuinely confused him. Perhaps it was because he knew he still hadn't figured everything out about her yet… he wasn't entirely sure. Ivy Coates. At least he knew her name now.

He sighed, frowning slightly. His pale hand felt for the thick paperback next to him and buried himself within its pages, though this only thought about John Watson. He couldn't concentrate on the words – why had he felt so flattered when John seemed fascinated with him? Sherlock sighed again, more angrily this time, and flung the book to the end of the bed, just as his mobile _pinged!_.

Since he hadn't given his mobile number to anyone at Oxford, he expected the text to be from Mycroft. He opened the text message and raised an eyebrow at it.

_Meet me at the campus entrance, 10 mins.  
><em>_JM_

A smile gives on Sherlock's lips – but more from being _impressed_. He knew Jim would find him eventually, but he didn't think it would have taken him this quick. But, even Sherlock Holmes could be wrong.

He jumped up, slid his mobile into his pocket and picked up his key, pulling on his coat as he did so. He knew better than to take his wallet – Jim wouldn't hesitate to empty it of its contents at the first chance. He opened the door to the stairwell but quickly retreated back inside as he heard the moans from something that sounded too pleasurable to not be faked from the second floor stairwell. Disgusted, he closed the door again and strode across his dormitory to the window. Thankfully, there was a drainpipe, and because his dormitory was only on the third floor, it wasn't that much of a climb down. He swiftly climbed out the window and straddled the drainpipe, before inching his way south. However, as he reached the window directly below his, he stopped, as the slip between the blind and sill lit up with artificial light. He knew better than to peer in, but then he saw her.

Ivy.

She was standing in front of a mirror hung above her desk in a maroon jumper and checkered shorts, completely oblivious to him. He watched her, completely mesmerised, as she tied her wet hair up in a tousled bun in one swish movement and started inspecting her skin. As he observed her, he noted that she couldn't be more than a woman's size 10, thin but with curves. And without the help of her heels from earlier, her height must have been around 5'3" – average. Everything about her did scream _average_ but Sherlock _knew_ there must be more to her. She moved away from the mirror and opened her wardrobe, hanging her clean laundry up in an orderly fashion – types of clothing grouped together. It didn't take too long, and once she had finished, she scooped up a damp towel from the floor and dumped it into a laundry bin – she likes to keep her space clean and tidy. As she walked, Sherlock noticed a scar on her left ankle. He couldn't observe any more, though, because she swept herself up into her bed and settled herself down with a book.

Sherlock shook his head. He carried on down the drainpipe until he reached the ground, and then walked along the path. He looked back once, spying the thin streak of light in the night darkness. He strode until he reached the edge of the campus. He paused and looked around; only his eyes could see the dark shadow leaning against the wall.

Jim Moriarty looked up at Sherlock and smirked. He looked too smart to be a reckless teenager, in a crisp black suit and clean skin – the cleanest Sherlock had ever seen him. His black hair was cut short and his round eyes stared as Sherlock slowly moved towards him.

"I'm surprised you didn't call when you got here, Sherlock," Jim's voice rang out into the night as Sherlock leaned against the wall next to him and lit a cigarette from his coat pocket.

"How did you even know I was here?"

Jim gave Sherlock a look that made him wish he hadn't asked it. Jim always had a knack at making Sherlock feel dumber than he actually was. "It didn't take me that long to realise, twat."

"I am impressed, though, Jim," Sherlock continued, "if Mycroft or my father realise you followed me here, it'll be prison, and you better be careful about which way you stand if you want to still be the one that does the penetrating."

"They'd have to find me first."

"I don't doubt that they will."

They both glanced at each other in unison for the first time that night. Jim's eyes lingered, though, only for a second longer. Sherlock avoided the eye contact. He stared straight ahead, into the deserted road, and noticed Jim shift his position from the corner of his eye. He kept his face straight as Jim lowered his lips onto Sherlock's, but the temptation was taking over; the taste of Jim, the smell of Jim, the feel of Jim on him, it was all too much. Before he knew what he was doing, his lips moved with Jim's and his hands fell onto the other's waist. Jim pinned Sherlock up against the bricks, the kiss becoming more and more intense. He sucked Sherlock's bottom lip and slipped his tongue into the other's mouth. Sherlock joined in, and each tongue let the other explore, dance and lick.

As quickly as he started it, Jim pulled away, grinning. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist. You never could."

Sherlock scowled. And looked away, feeling his hollow cheeks flush slightly. He knew exactly why he met up with Jim, why he let him do that: it was only because he was _bored_. And the worst part was that Jim knew that too. Jim might have known it before Sherlock even had realised it – but, of course, that was a big 'might'.

His deductions were cut short by Jim's hand, cupping Sherlock's crotch, causing Sherlock to snap his head back to face Jim's leer.

"I've rented a flat down the road," were the only words to be said. There didn't need to be anymore even mumbled, because both knew what the other was thinking. Jim moved his away from Sherlock and stalked away, leaving Sherlock no choice other than to follow him.

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><p><em>I'm a bit unsure about this chapter... I am trying with all my might to keep Sherlock in character but he is the hardest!<em>

_Read and review? :-)_


	6. Chapter Six

_I do apologise, again, for my slow updates! When I started this, I was going to try and do one a night - or at least one every other night - but with my coursework, I just don't seem to have any time anymore! I will try and update more often._

_Anyway, thank you to everyone who has added this to story alert! Read and review, please! :-)_

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><p><span>Chapter Six<span>

Ivy sat, hunched over the biggest French/English dictionary she could find at Oxford and her nearly finished French essay. It was a Thursday evening and the labyrinth of books was almost empty, and Ivy had been sitting in the same spot at the same bench since three that afternoon, when her last seminar of the day had ended. She was determined to get this essay finished before the night was up – that way, she could get it handed in early and focus on her other work; after all, she was doing a joint degree of English and French.

"Excuse me, but do you have a pen I could borrow?"

Ivy glanced up towards the asker. He wasn't particularly tall, with choppy ash-blonde hair pushed back. He was smiling across to Ivy from another empty table, with a notepad open in front of him and a pile of textbooks to his right.

Ivy nodded slowly, and reached into her bag and fished out a blue biro – she wasn't bothered about losing any of her blue biros, having to prefer to write in black. He took the pen with no hesitation, thanking her, and as he began to scribble notes down on his paper, Ivy went back to her essay. After a while, she slowed her pace and began to get distracted. All of a sudden, the chips in the wooden tables and the library's high ceilings were far more interesting.

"Hey, thanks again for the pen," the young man piped up as he reached over and placed the pen in front of Ivy. "I really ought to stop forgetting mine when I come and do extra work," he chuckled before looking at Ivy, almost expectantly.

Ivy took the pen and put it away, smiling at him. She really hadn't expected him to try and make conversation. "Erm, yeah I always have a spare in my bag just in case," she awkwardly added.

The young man held out his hand. "I'm Greg."

"Ivy," she replied, shaking his hand.

"So, Ivy," Greg lingered around her seat, "are you studying French?"

Ivy glanced down at her essay before slowly nodding. "Erm… yeah, French and English combined," Greg nodded as if he related, "what about you?"

"Ah, I'm doing PPE – y'know, Philosophy, Politics and Economics, though the Philosophy part's a load of wank but it's fine."

"Oh, right."

"So are you liking your course?" He asked almost hurriedly.

Ivy nodded. "Yeah, it's fine," she replied, vaguely. She didn't know what it was but, so far, the only people to actually introduce themselves to her have been men. She didn't understand it. And she certainly wasn't going to express every one of her opinions and feelings to this one who she's only known for, what? Five, ten minutes?

Eventually, Greg shifted his gaze towards the entrance of the library; Ivy imitated him and saw a pale black-haired boy saunter towards them with a cocky smile on his face.

"Greg!" The black-haired guy slapped Greg on the back, grinning.

"You look happy," Greg commented.

"Well, you would be too if Sally had done to you what she's just done to me," the other replied, his expression becoming even more cocky if that was even possible.

Ivy sat, glancing up at them, wondering whether she should carry on with her essay.

"Ah, this is Ivy…?" Greg began to introduce her to his friend.

"Coates, Ivy Coates," she filled in the blank. Instead of holding out a hand, she just waved. She didn't really want to touch the pale guy if he had been doing things with whoever Sally is.

"This is Will Anderson," Greg finished his introductions.

"But just call me Anderson," Anderson butted in.

Ivy made a mental note before the two men turned back to each other; Anderson started muttering something about a party in town. Greg nodded.

"Ok, well, hopefully I'll see you again, Ivy?" He flashed another grin.

Ivy nervously smiled back and waved, silently. As her two new acquaintances made their way out of the library, she turned to face her essay again. She only had two more paragraphs to write, in French of course, until she reached her word limit, but the idea of settling down to write and translate for another couple of hours or so was really not appealing. She looked around again, sighing in boredom, and it wasn't long before she spied him again, walking through the entrance. He was as tall as she remembered, with the same dishevelled curls and cheekbones artfully cutting through the pale skin. _He mustn't eat much_, she thought, _to get such a bone structure_.

As she watched him, she became aware that he might just actually see her. Hastily, she hunched back over her work, half wishing he would glance over her in the same way he seems to do so with everyone else at Oxford. But, strangely, part of her wished – begged – that he would see her. Even if it was just a notice. An acknowledgement. She stared down at her essay and pretended to read what she had already written. After a while, the sense of someone staring at her washed through her until she dared a glance upwards.

Directly opposite her, with those eyes almost searching into her, was Sherlock, fully wrapped in his navy coat and scarf, even though it wasn't particularly cold yet. Both of his elbows were placed symmetrically on the table and his fingered laced together just in front of his lips.

After a while, it seemed clear that Sherlock wasn't going to be the one that would say hello first, so Ivy smiled politely, like she did with everyone else, and said, "Hi."

Relief overcame her as she saw a slight grin on Sherlock's face. However, there was still silence. Ivy turned back to her work, but again, couldn't concentrate fully – not with this Sherlock Holmes still looking at her as if he was trying to find something out. Every so often, she stole a glance up at him. Under is blue eyes was slightly purple, and even his eyes themselves were tired; he looked like he hadn't slept all night. And - wait. On his neck, was that a _lovebite_? In her mind, she shook her head. It had to be a heat rash or something - somehow, Sherlock Holmes didn't seem the type to collect hickeys.

Finally, that velvet voice dragged her gaze back up to him permanently with, "I know you were lying."

Ivy shot a confused look across her face.

"Yesterday," her companion explained. "You weren't busy at all."

It didn't take her long to realise that he was talking about when he asked her to join him and that John for coffee. "Oh," she said, putting her pen down again, "Don't take it personally."

"I wasn't."

Sherlock smirked, again, as Ivy looked momentarily confused. Silence consumed them again, until Ivy built up the courage and asked, "How did you know I'd smoked since I was fifteen?"

The smirk dimmed. Sherlock sighed and looked at her – was he actually deciding on telling her? At last, he leaned in, his hands clasped in front of him and explained, "Your fingernails are slightly yellowed, not too noticeably, but enough for _me _to notice it. Also, inhaling seemed natural to you – you've smoked for a long time but not very often: you prefer to… I think the term nowadays is 'social smoke'. I asked how you got served for cigarettes back then because you actually look quite young for your age, which is nineteen, I imagine. Even if you bought them with a group, they'd still question your age… unless you knew places that didn't do that. I doubt you let someone else handle your money. It's only been recently that you've started to smoke alone – most probably since you passed your driving licence and actually had ID that proved you were over the age restriction. My guess is that it distracts you from what's _really_ bothering you."

"And, how did you know I was lying yesterday?"

"You were walking away from the English department building, so it couldn't have been a seminar – but mainly, your demeanour strongly suggests that you tend to avoid most social situations."

Ivy started at him. He was like a machine, or a mind reader, or, even more scarily, _both_. Sherlock stared back, though after a while, his gaze shifted slightly behind her, where John Watson was walking towards them, carrying several books.

"Ah, John," Sherlock greeted him, snapping Ivy out of her amazed trance. "Why don't you join us?" He ushered the sandy haired boy to sit at the table.

John smiled and dropped his pile of books down on the table next to Ivy before sitting down. Ivy smiled at him; he obviously hadn't noticed the tiredness on Sherlock's face, or even the blotch on his neck. She let it slide and looked at all the books he had brought – they were all to do with biology and medicine and things Ivy didn't even knew existed. John opened his mouth to say something to the both of them, when Sherlock abruptly stood and disappeared down an aisle of books.

Ivy gazed after him as John shook his head. "John, is he always like that?"

"Like what?"

"You know… so _brash_."

"Oh! Yeah, well, he told me he's a 'high-functioning sociopath'. I looked it up, actually, and he seems to fit the bill."

"Oh, right."

John settled down with his own work, just as Sherlock returned, carrying a thick book on French grammar. As he slid in the seat opposite her again, he almost dropped it in front of Ivy. She merely looked at him, before he explained, "Sometimes, it's better to learn rules by book in your own time, than by lecture."


	7. Chapter Seven

_I apologise for the lack of updates - I've recently started learning to drive so I've been studying for my theory, and also Christmas time is prime time for coursework, which means even more essays. I am going to try and keep updates more regular, but I have so much more on my plate that have more priority unfortunately._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading! And please review! :-)_

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><p><span>Chapter Seven<span>

All three of them – Sherlock, Ivy and John – were sat in the library, at that mahogany table, for just over an hour after John had joined them. There had been small conversation, mostly between Ivy and John – Sherlock sat on his mobile phone for a majority of it.

After a while, John flipped the last pages of one of his textbooks closed and exhaled happily – he was finished for the night. He began to pack away his things and piling the books to return to their homes when Sherlock finally put his phone away in his coat's pocket and, with a voice seeped in boredom, he asked, "Are you leaving us, John?"

John's shoulders shook with repressed laughter; despite knowing Sherlock for a short amount of time, he could admit that he was almost _used_ to his abruptness. Others would be somewhat offended but John understood that Sherlock was different. Sometimes it still irked him though, but what's the point of making a fuss over something that can't be helped?

"Yeah," he nodded, standing with his bag and the books. "Going to just put these back and then see if my roommate has ordered any pizzas yet. I'll see you soon!"

Ivy bade him goodbye and went back to her own work. She only had to write the conclusion of that damned French essay before she, too, was done for the night. Sherlock seemed to be adamant to stay silent, even as Ivy scrolled down the five last words and beamed triumphantly at herself. Through the small, seemingly secretive glances she stole up at her mysterious… can she even call him a friend? she felt like he was deep in thought. His blue eyes were precise and on task, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. Naturally, she wondered what he was wondering so profusely about, but she got the sense not to question him. She began to pack away her own things, when that baritone voice, an afternoon cello solo, purred out into the air between them.

"Your roommate hasn't shown up yet I see," was Sherlock's attempt at conversation.

"No, she'll be here at Christm- wait, how did you know that?"

Sherlock sighed, gritting his teeth. "Do you _have_ to ask that _every_ time I just _say_ something?" He blurted out, feeling his eyes narrow ever so slightly. But as his sudden outburst cleared away, and he saw that absolutely startled look on Ivy's face, his gut twisted slightly with a _pang!_ He let himself relax again; _it__'__s__not__her__fault,__it__'__s__not__her__fault_.

Ivy couldn't deny it had shocked her; Sherlock had seemed so calm to her, every time they had met. Eccentric, of course, but calm all the same. Her eyes darted away, her cheeks colouring slightly. It had only taken that one snap to realise that she _did_ question him all the time. Acquaintances don't usually question acquaintances; she'll have to remember that. She mumbled a "sorry", sounding more desperate than she would've liked, but Sherlock didn't even seem to notice it. The silence that plummeted down between them was far more uncomfortable than the usual quiets – Ivy felt it, at least, like a bucket of water no one else would carry. She sighed and stood up to make her way back to her dormitory, when Sherlock cleared his throat and joined her standing.

"Have you ever wondered what happens when you mix nail polish with acid and cause it to evaporate?"

Ivy suppressed a laugh from the randomness of the question. "Erm, no – "

"Oh, I have, in fact I was going to conduct the experiment at some point to somewhat quench my curiosity. I just need to actually get hold of some acid, probably from the science laboratories, and some nail polish… I think I'll need black in order to see the results more clearly – "

"Well, you're not using _my_ nail polish, Sherlock!" A giggle escaped from his companion. "What are these experiments anyway?"

Sherlock smirked. "They're just little things to keep me from getting… _too_ bored."

"Erm, care to elaborate?"

They had reached the courtyard outside the library. The time had grown late; sundown was long gone, and the ornate lamps across the campus were radiating the golden glow, scattering shards of delight through the dark. As they walked towards their halls, Sherlock talked and talked about his current, past and (he hoped) future experiments. His velvet voice purred in the stillness, smooth and erratic at the same time.

As he prattled, Ivy listened. Just how someone could even think of these things amazed her – she has never in her entire life been curious as to what happens if a rose petal is put in a glass of Coke and then micro-waved for 94 minutes, or if cat hair has the same reaction as dog hair when left in ammonia in a refrigerator. Sherlock seemed to be proud of his 'research', as he called it. He just didn't seem too happy about his 'atrocious roommate being a prude' whenever he conducted his experimentations.

"I need the data. Without the data, my brain stops working and it – it _rots_," Sherlock had eccentrically informed her about midway through one of his explanations.

Despite the vast amount of information Sherlock revelled, the walk back to their halls of residence appeared to be quite short. They climbed up the meandering staircase until Ivy stopped in front of her own door. She began to dig through her coat pockets for her key to disable the automatic lock. Sherlock stopped next to her, almost oblivious.

"…the water turned green in the kettle, which _obviously_ made Sebastian turn his nose up at making a cup of tea," the baritone voice went on, "and I was thinking, actually, if you would like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?"

Ivy stopped, with her key turned halfway, and turned and stared. Sherlock's usual pale cheekbones were streaked slightly with carnation pink, but his blue eyes were bright and his eyebrow was cocked in expectation. She didn't know what to say.

"Erm… well, I was planning on spending the night in with a cup of tea and Robert Smith," she shrugged, her own cheeks turning a bright scarlet, " but I think that sounds much more exciting."

Sherlock smirked, turning towards the second flight of stairs. "Excellent, I'll be knocking on your door at half seven." He jogged up the stairs, hands in his pockets, and just as he turned the corner, he called down: "Goodnight, Ivy."

Ivy failed to bite down a smile. She opened her door and quietly added, "Goodnight, Sherlock," to herself, though part of her reckoned that Sherlock heard her as his own door's automatic lock's sounded through Ivy's ears just at the top of that short staircase.

**…**

Ivy's bag was extremely heavy the next day. With three already full folders, four textbooks, including the French grammar one Sherlock so kindly picked out for her the day before, and two novels, her shoulder definitely wasn't going to forgive her for a while.

The autumn winds whipped at her as she scurried across the campus. Her varsity scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck and she hugged her coat to keep the cold air out. Her brown tousles were flying all over the place in the wind, so much so that she could hardly see where she was going. She fought against the friction until her lighter shoulder collided into someone quite bulky.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" She cried, tucking her curls behind her ear and squinting to see whom it was.

Greg was crouching on the floor, closing opening textbooks and grabbing his work.

Horrified, Ivy jumped down and began to help him. "Oh, my God, you would not believe how many times I've bumped into people this year already," she babbled. She kept her eyes on where her hands were going, though she knew Greg's were fixed on her.

"It's totally fine, Ivy," Greg smiled sincerely, standing back up straight. "I mean, this wind is _ridiculous_."

Ivy followed him and tucked her curls behind her ear in an attempt to get a clear view. "Yeah, I know, I hope it dies down soon." She could feel the small talk crush her chest with awkwardness.

"It probably will – say, listen, are you doing anything tonight?"

Ivy was taken aback. She looked over to Greg, who looked quite embarrassed. His face was flustered and his knuckles were almost white with gripping onto his books so hard. "Oh, erm, I'm sorry, Greg, but I've already got plans with someone else…"

Greg, flashed with disappointment, let out a forced laugh of relief. "Oh, right, of course you do… is it with that mind reader?"

Ivy shot him a puzzled look. "Mind reader as in Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah – "

Ivy let out a laugh. "Sherlock isn't a _mind__reader_, Greg!"

"He might as well be."

Detecting the tint of bitterness, Ivy bit her giggles back and just nods. "Yeah, we made plans yesterday for tonight."

Greg didn't respond, and just merely looked down onto the cobbled ground. Ivy wanted to escape the ensuing silence, and when she spotted John walking towards her, also blinded by the wind, she grabbed the opportunity.

"Sorry, Greg, I'll probably see you?" She began to walk away, slowly, waiting for a reply.

"Erm, yeah, probably," was mumbled after her. As she quickened her pace and, relaxing, joined John, Greg stared after her. He was unable to hide the disappointed expression on his face.


	8. Chapter Eight

_After a long wait, here's Sherlock and Ivy's date! (that rhymed as well omg)  
>I hope you all had a lovely Christmas and Boxing Day; I was aiming to have the Christmas chapters written and uploaded for now but, alas, I'm way behind my original schedule, sorry! Anyhow, here's Chapter Eight - which, as I will warn you, does have a little bit of slash at the end - it's kind of my first so be kind haha! I'm a bit unsure about it, but hey-ho.<em>

_Review? :-)_

* * *

><p><span>Chapter Eight<span>

Ivy stood in front of her mirror, applying her red Chanel lipstick delicately. It was almost half seven and the darkness outside was illuminated by those lamps. She could still hear the wind from earlier batter around the campus.

She had just finished blotting her lips when there was a confident rap at the door. Forcing back a shameful beam, she made her way to the door and opened it, finding Sherlock standing there, looking even more… _Sherlock_ than usual, oddly. He stood tall, his back straight, sporting a purple silk shirt under a black blazer. Despite his neat clothing, his dark curls were just as unkempt and tousled as usual. Over the crook of his elbow lay his navy overcoat, also looking as dishevelled as its owner.

"Good evening," he flashed a smile.

"Hi, come in," Ivy went back into her dormitory, leaving Sherlock to step inside and close the door. "Sorry, I'm running slightly late… Just make yourself at home."

Sherlock stepped in through the doorway and let himself glance around quickly. He cautiously sat down on the edge of her bed, creasing the freshly made sheets. Ivy hurried into the bathroom, kicking the door but not closing it fully.

Sherlock couldn't stop his eyes from darting around the room; he needed more data about her. He couldn't understand why he felt so compelled towards the brunette, but at the same time, he desperately needed to know more about her. He inhaled every detail he could possibly compute, observing his surroundings. Her dormitory was the same layout as every other, but for a bookcase absolutely overloading with books upon books - a reader, if it was obvious from the start, he deduces. Also, she appreciates the finer things in life - she had decorated personally, with little vintage style knick-knacks, wall art and even some fairy lights around the window, giving the box room a warm glow. She has an imagination.

His gaze flickered over towards her desk. Underneath, her wicker bin was half full - a couple of Coke cans, mostly paper, some pasta pots from Morrison's. He stood up and walked over. She had brought in an old TV and DVD player, from home, with a DVD case open on top with the disc missing - _Submarine_, directed by Richard Ayoade, he read, was the last film she watched. The same crumpled packet of Parisian cigarettes was tucked under a battered copy of_ The Great Gatsby, _which was obviously her favourite book, and it also told him she hadn't smoked since that night, otherwise they'd be in her coat pocket and he hadn't smelt their peculiar scent on her. It isn't that she wants to keep it a secret, or she wouldn't have smoked so freely in public before. Plus, the packet had almost been empty, and it still isn't since she hasn't thrown it out. Placing the book back down, he noticed a set of family photographed, framed, hidden behind a pile of study guides and text books. There were three - one quite old, with what could only be her parents, and two more modern ones, of Ivy with what looked like siblings, an older brother and sister. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. She values her studies more than her family, or not particularly close to them, but still feels obliged to put out their photographs.

Turning his attention to her bursting bookcase, he moved over and observed the piles of books. All ordered alphabetically by the authors' last names, so she has some order when it comes to tidying. She had a range of literature, from Shakespeare's sonnets to Harry Potter. Judging from the spines, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ was also one of her favourites. Some of the shelves were taken up by DVDs, piled up strategically to fit as many as she could - a film lover as well as a book lover. On the bottom shelf stood a vast list of old vinyls, tucked away next to a record player.

He stood back up tall, and turned towards the other side. There was the faint smell of Ivy's scene, and it was the same as the other night: empty, dark, the second bed without any sheets. Completely impersonal, compared to Ivy's half. No, her roommate hadn't arrived yet, but she was expecting one soon, hence keeping that side plain.

As he concluded, Ivy opened the bathroom door again, smiled and slipped on a pair of black brogue-style heels. She wore a floaty black blouse with a crocheted collar over a black body con skirt with sheer tights. She slipped on her coat and, as she grabbed her bag, she pulled her brown waves out at the neck. Sherlock opened the door onto the stairwell and, letting Ivy go first, he followed, pulling on his own navy coat as they hit the winds outside.

"I am sorry for making you wait," Ivy said as Sherlock strode up beside her. They set off, making their way off campus, together. "I totally didn't realise what time it was - got a bit carried away with an essay."

"It's fine, really," Sherlock replied. "I don't mind at all, and besides, it gave me time to think of a restaurant," he added, grinning.

"Oh yeah? So, where are we going?"

His smirk widened. "You'll see."

Ivy felt a smile play on her lips at how mysterious he was being about the restaurant. They had reached the edge of the campus and Sherlock was leading her towards their desired street. The wind whipped them, but neither let the cold lashes prevent conversation and laughs between them. They had almost reached the main street when a black-haired man sauntered out of the shadows in front of them.

Sherlock stopped as soon as he saw the suited man, causing Ivy to stop a couple of steps after, right between both males. With a perplexed look flashing across her face, she looked back at Sherlock and then up at the other.

"Sherlock," the black haired man sang out, "I'm hurt."

Sherlock sighed and kept walking, catching up with Ivy. "Jim, go away, can't you see I'm on a date?"

"You don't go on dates!"

The jealous outburst stopped Sherlock, and once more he turned towards the other. "Evidentially I do."

The other - Jim - glanced at Ivy, his eyes absorbing her head to toe. "She's not your type, anyway." He turned fully to her and added, "Baby girl, you have no idea who Sherlock is, do you?"

Ivy stared at him, and then back at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes had narrowed, a snarl had replaced the relaxation from before.

"Fuck off, Jim," interrupted the silence as Sherlock began to walk away again. Ivy caught up as she heard Jim laugh, almost hysterically, and shout something like, "You'll miss me, Sherlock!" through the blaring winds.

Ivy could feel the atmosphere had changed; Sherlock looked exactly like the wind storm they were walking through - it was obvious he wasn't fond of this Jim. His stride had quickened, but instead of trying to catch up with him, Ivy paused after they rounded a corner. Sherlock noticed this straight away and sighed.

"I know Jim Moriarty from back in my home town - he was just a bit of fun," she heard him grumble.

It took her a couple of minutes to understand, and then she released an "Oh…" in realisation. "So, you're what? Bisexual? Which is fine, by the way -"

"I know it's fine," Sherlock interrupted her, before scowling into the road. "It's just -"

"Sherlock, I don't really care. Personally I think you could've done better, but I don't care. Now, are you going to take me to this restaurant or not? Because I think I'm hungry enough to empty Oxford of all it's food at this precise moment in time," She asked, smiling playfully.

Sherlock blinked, taken aback, but then smiled back at her, and let wind blow the angst off his chest and continued the conversation as if the encounter with Jim hadn't even happened.

They found the restaurant within the next ten minutes, Like a gentleman once more, Sherlock opened the door for Ivy and once he'd given his name to the waiter, they were shown to a table. The restaurant was quiet and small, but with an atmospheric set up. Build in an old building, there were old age wooden pillars across the ceiling, and the lighting was low and warm. Their table was in front of the window, and since it was one a side street, the view wasn't particularly distracting.

Sherlock helped Ivy out of her own coat before he took his off. As soon as they were seated, the waiter handed them their menus and asked for drinks politely. "Water and a Coke," Sherlock told him, "and I think we'll just share a large margarita pizza." He looked over to Ivy, as if for her approval. The waiter scribbled down the order and walked away, leaving them alone.

"I don't eat that much and I don't think you do, either, so why not just share?" Sherlock explained, brushing his fingers through his dark curls, leaving ringlets fall onto his pale forehead.

"Good logic," Ivy agreed, as the waiter arrived with their drinks.

"So," Sherlock began, "I know you were lying the other day, when you said you had a lecture."

Ivy paused, but then remembered and giggled, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Oh, don't take it personally."

"I didn't," Sherlock replied, flashing _that_ smirk at her.

"How did you know?"

"You were walking away from both the English and the Languages seminar rooms," he explained, as if it was obvious.

"So, what else have you found out?"

Sherlock laughed and looked at her. Those blue eyes were enough to make Ivy want to melt. "You have an eye for the rarer things in life, and you're a book lover and a film lover. Your favourite book is The Great Gatsby by Fitzgerald - it's the most battered and read. According to your desk, you have your textbooks in front of your family photographs, suggesting you aren't particularly close to them."

Ivy flickered her gaze away for a moment, but then focused back onto the matter at hand. Sherlock noticed this, of course, but before he could say anything, the waiter arrived with their pizza. As they tucked in, Ivy pointed the conversation towards her companion. "So, is that what you do? You 'deduce' things?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes," he responded, "I observe, and then deduce my conclusions from my observations."

"John mentioned you were a sociopath."

He nodded, taking a sip of his water. "A high-functioning sociopath. I collect the data and my brain works with the logic - it's all elementary. People see but they don't observe - if everyone just _observes_ and just _thinks_, then what I do wouldn't be so odd. Their brains are so vacant, boring, idiotic." Ivy raised an eyebrow. "And most of the idiots don't react well to the difference between me and them."

"It's awful - you can't help it!"

"What about your family?" Sherlock asked, brashly.

Ivy was taken aback by the sudden change of conversation. "Erm, well, you know." Sherlock stared at her, puzzled. She sighed. "I've never been particularly close to my family, like you said. University was my ticket to be away." She bit into another slice of pizza as Sherlock laced his fingers together, just below his chin.

"Most of the photographs were taken on special occasions - birthdays, Christmas - suggesting that you aren't very close to them, but the photographs with your parents are old and the photographs with your siblings are more modern; My guess is that your parents died when you were younger, and as soon as your brother - the eldest sibling - was old enough, he raised you himself."

Silent, Ivy took a drink of her Coke. "It happened when I was eight," she slow explained. "My brother was 18 already so he took me and my sister in as soon as possible. Luce didn't take it well and Zach tried to be the good protective brother but he landed himself an apprentice course and ended up having to work nightshifts at Shad Sanderson. This placement here at Oxford was the best thing that ever happened to me - anything to get away from it." Her eyes never left the wooden surface of the table, causing Sherlock to apologise quietly. However, she quickly snapped out of her trance and smiled at Sherlock, who couldn't take his eyes off Ivy. Almost disconcertingly, she was the only thing he could focus on.

Once they had finished their pizza, Sherlock coolly asked a passing waitress for the bill. He paid, whipping his bank card out of his leather wallet, not to impress Ivy since he knew she didn't care for it. The wind had died down from before, but an early autumn breeze still swept through streets as they walked back to the campus. Despite it being quite mild, Ivy was shivering slightly under her thin coat. Sherlock frowned slightly, before shrugging his thick layer off and and wraps it around her shoulders, his grip lingering just for a couple of seconds longer before letting go and silently apologising. The way they chose to take back to the campus took slightly longer, passing through a small park area. Ivy filled the night air with giggles and laughter, as Sherlock continued his babbles on his experiments, Sebastian's reactions to them, and also on his deductions of other students at the university. Sherlock talked and entertained; he was surprised to find he enjoyed having someone laugh _with _him rather than at him for once.

Ivy stopped walking, still chuckling, and sat on a bench, using the backrest as the seat. Sherlock joined her, balancing himself perfectly. The bench overlooked the rest of the park, and some residential areas. No stars could be spotted, the alluring golden glow of the lamplights obstructed the night sky.

They sat in comfortable silence, until Ivy quietly interrupted it. "Moriarty", she slowly mumbled.

"What?"

Ivy snapped her gaze over to Sherlock face. He had raised an eyebrow towards her and his eyes screams perplexity. "Oh, nothing, it's just… It's just I'm sure I've heard that name before."

…

Sherlock lay on his back and stared out of the window, fully dressed. He had lay there, in the same position, for almost two hours. The crescent moon leered in through the unprotected glass, into the dark and silent dormitory. He was alone; Sebastian hadn't been seen, but Sherlock knew he was most probably out getting drunk somewhere with his rugby team. His dormitory had remained silent since he returned from his date with Ivy.

He suddenly felt a twinge in his lips for a smile at the thought. Ivy. Everything about her - from her ultra feminine laugh to the way she tucks her hair behind her right ear, almost subconsciously - intrigued him in such a way that was foreign to him. No other girl had made him have _this_ reaction before - he'd been attracted to many, but never like this.

His mind was overflowing with Ivy, and he could feel it. He absently slid a soft hand down, the other swiftly moving to his neck, his pulse. He counted the beats, _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6… _as ventured into the band of his trousers, hearing himself let out a forced, strangled moan. Rubbing himself, violently, he arched his back, gasping into his pillow.

_15, 16, 17,_ he grasped his cock tightly, tilting his head backwards. _23, 24, 25, 26._ Hips bucking, breathing shuddering, barely controlled, pulse quickening. _42, 43, 44, _he stroked, violently surging. _59, 60, 61, 62 - _he ripped his hand away from his pulse, grabbed the sheet, knuckles whitening.

"Oh, fu-uck," he breathed as he felt the hot semen over his fingers and clothing. His cheeks were completely flustered, the scarlet contrasting with the paleness, and speckled with sweat. As he let go of his grips, he limply rolled over to face the wall and let his heartbeat slow.


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

John sat at his desk, a pen in one hand, staring out of the window. He was staring, but not taking anything in - it was all just static, like his TV at home when it often lost signal. His other hand lay limply on the desk, over the biology notes he should have been completing. Behind him, Mike lay on his bed, typing furiously on his laptop. Neither had any lectures until that afternoon, giving the boys time to complete some extra work voluntarily.

As Mike concentrated on the bright screen in front of him, John let his thoughts get the better of his attention. He couldn't focus on words like "conjugation" and "synamorphies" when all he could think of was the tall, bubbly blonde in _all _of his lectures. Regrettably, he hadn't taken Sherlock's advice when it came to asking Sarah Phillips out – he had binned the roses as soon as he retreated back to his dormitory. How could he have been so stupid? Roses and a card was something he would've done back in primary school, not university. As soon as Sherlock pointed it out, it suddenly dawned on him how pathetic he had been, how _naïve _he had been, to think it could possibly work. And then there's Sherlock himself – barely a week into university and he had already gotten himself a date with a girl he had only initially met on his first night in Oxford. It was _maddening_. John himself had only known Sherlock for a few days, but the high-functioning sociopath had such an intense character that John couldn't do anything but accept his presumptuousness. How could someone so… brash have a date already? The mere thought of it coloured John green with envy.

Mike coughed, causing John to be snatched away from his thoughts. He dropped his pen and turned to find his roommate texting.

"Fancy going for lunch?" Mike asked, clearly bored of the work.

"Erm, it's just past eleven."

"So? John, I'm bored and I'm peckish."

John looked at his notes and sighed. He knew he wouldn't get far today. "Ok, yeah, sure."

"Big or small?"

"What?"

"Big lunch or small snack?"

John checked his watch. He had actually made plans with Ivy, to meet her before his afternoon lecture, and strangely didn't want to be late for his new friend. "Erm, small snack?"

Mike shrugged, agreeing. "We can go to the campus café."

…

"Are there any questions about this extract?" Professor Dimmock announced to Ivy and her peers as they packed their bags. "_Wuthering Heights_ is a truly compelling novel – don't forget to include some wider knowledge in your essays."

The seminar had been slow, lasting the first two hours of the day. Dimmock had mainly lectured to the small class his interpretations of Brontë's masterpiece, with Ivy scribbling any notes she thought useful in her battered copy of the book. With a wave of Dimmock's hand, the class filed out into the traditional corridors and separated.

Ivy paused to the side of Dimmock's door, digging through her satchel for her mobile. She usually switched it off during seminars, but now, oddly, she felt obliged to check it. She knew she was a little early to meet John, even without looking at the time, but there was something else.

Eventually she found it, buried beneath the never-ending pile of books. Switching it on, she raised her eyebrows as the notification of a text message buzzed up onto the touchscreen.

_Answer your texts. I'm bored.  
><em>_SH_

She stared, puzzled, at the text. It had been sent about ten minutes earlier, but she was, surprisingly, mostly confused about the fact that he hadn't realised she was in a seminar. Hurriedly, she checked the time and saw she had half an hour until she told John she would go and meet him in the café. She smiled secretly to herself as she touched on the Reply button and began to text.

_Sorry, I was in a seminar._

Her finger hesitated over the 'x' button. She decided against, hastily, and pressed Send.

With her phone in her hand, she shifted her satchel on her shoulder and made her way through the bustling campus towards her dormitory. The British weather was being typically unpredictable; early autumn sun glistened over the conventional courtyards and campus squares. The chilled breeze, an old leftover from the windstorm, cooled the rays.

She hadn't walked ten paces when her phone buzzed again in her grasp. It made her jump slightly, but she still blended in with the other students as she looked at the new text.

_I know, but you're not busy now. Meet me in the library.  
><em>_SH_

Unable to text and walk, Ivy stood still and typed her response, feeling the flustered knot inside her chest – the same knot she felt when she remembered every time she had clasped eyes on Sherlock Holmes since the first night of university. The same knot she felt when Sherlock looked back at her, or when he touched her, even for a second. Or when he had leaned in ever so slightly in the stairwell after their very successful date, only to smile, bid her goodnight and disappear up the next flight. Ivy can't deny she was a little disappointed, but she couldn't do anything but admire his gentlemanly nature. Biting back another smile, she pressed Send and began walking again.

_Now?_

The response was almost immediate.

_Yes. I have food. Hurry.  
><em>_SH_

Ivy raised an eyebrow. Food was prohibited in the library – though, despite this, a lot of students did eat in there. They usually kept to the back, away from the librarians. If the any of the Oxford librarians caught any sort of eating or drinking in the libraries, it's been told that said students have been 'punished severely'. Rumour has it. Ivy kept her mobile in her hand and made her way to the library. She knew it would only be the biggest one – Sherlock had explained to her that it was his favourite. But where would he be sat? Sherlock is far from stupid – anyone could see that – so he's not going to be easy to find. He'll hide himself, for the food, but also hide himself from other students. She also had a feeling he'd keep himself from being bored by reading something, so he'll probably be sat in a section he'd be interested in. Which section that would be, she hadn't a clue. From what she could make of it, Sherlock would take an interest in anything as long as he wouldn't be bored.

She shuddered as she walked through the library's threshold. Jim Moriarty's smug face flashed into her mind as soon as she thought of Sherlock's boredom. Undeniably, he creeped her out – but the worst part was that she does remember his name from _somewhere_. She just can't remember where.

She quietly rushed towards the backend of the library, eyeing the shadows between the tall bookcases for any sign of Sherlock. Eventually, she found him, leaning against a bookcase in the Music section, his nose buried within a theory textbook.

"So you found me," was the first thing to emerge from the baritone voice.

"You have food, so you wouldn't be out in the open," Ivy explained, meriting a smirk from Sherlock's lips.

"Good deduction." The smirk broadened.

"I can't stay too long, though – I told John I'd meet him for lunch."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed quickly, but relaxed just as fast. "John decided to ask the subject on advice, then."

"The subject?"

"The opposite sex," Sherlock replied, as if it was obvious. "Asking the opposite sex advice on the opposite sex. It took him long enough to think of it."

Ivy scoffed, almost inaudibly, smiling and shaking her head at the same time.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, it's just…" Ivy chuckled, "you really are… _extraordinary_."

…

By the time John and Mike sauntered through its doors that late morning, he café was in limbo, between breakfast and lunchtime. There were plenty tables left unoccupied, with most students choosing to drink takeaway hot drinks before late morning lectures.

John slid into a leather sofa as his roommate wandered up to the counter. Silently, he watched his usual order, a chicken sandwich and tea, be charged along with Mike's fajita wrap and Coke. Thankfully, his roommate seemed not to even notice his frustration – his, disgustingly embarrassing _girl problems._

Many people, when looking at John Watson, wouldn't guess that he had difficulty with the opposite sex. He had always associated himself with boys who excelled in that area, all through secondary school; but there's a difference between pulling at parties and dating a girl you actually liked.

With the amount of parties and nightclubs John had slid himself into, undetected, it was only right to assume that he was a killer with the ladies, but in reality, all he had to do was slip in some casual chatlines (memorised from he teachings of his old best friend) and he'd be waking up next to the same woman the next morning. He never actually _liked_ any of the girls back then though. It was strange, but as soon as he felt any sort of feelings towards them, his tongue just seemed to stop working and his brain would go blank. Maybe he had something wrong with him. Or maybe he was just scared.

Mike arrived at the table, grabbing John out of his reminiscence. He plonked himself down on the seat opposite, completely oblivious to John's problem.

"Quite quiet, isn't it?"

John nodded, mumbling an agreement.

"Did you finish your notes?"

"Nah," John shook his head. "I'll have to do some before the lecture."

The small talk was almost painful. That was the only bad thing about Mike: he hadn't seemed to talk to anyone else other than John, and they ended up spending almost every moment together. The conversations often just sizzled out.

John took a bite of his sandwich and looked out the window. It didn't take him long to spot a certain tall sociopath and a tousled brunette slow make their way towards the café.

"Is that the guy who can, erm, _read_ people?" Mike followed John's line of sight.

John nodded. "Yep."


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

"It doesn't look at all busy," Ivy casually mentioned as they approached the café's door. It was true that there were only a few people inside, two of which were John Watson and his roommate.

Sherlock agreed and held the door open for his companion. He was trying to be as gentlemanly as he possibly could, knowing that Ivy appreciated it. After all, her lips did perk up slightly into a tiny smile whenever he did.

As soon as he stepped into the café, he strode up to the counter and ordered two teas, dismissing Ivy's attempt to pay for her own. As soon as he handed over the money to the cashier, he noticed Ivy, in the corner of his eye, see John and gracefully move over to his table. He was told his drinks wouldn't be too long by the waitress, and standing in front of the machine, he subconsciously watched the brunette, in the metal, be introduced to John's friend – his roommate, judging by John's character. He counted the times she unwarily tucked tousled waves behind her ear – four, including the one when she was walking towards them. As he observed, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt so infatuated with someone else.

His eyes cut away from the reflection when the two mugs were placed onto his tray. Swiftly, he picked up his order and turned to join the others.

"Sherlock," John greeted him, "this is Mike Stamford – "

"Your roommate," Sherlock interrupted him, shaking Mike's hand.

Mike laughed, his shoulders shaking. "Fascinating," he murmured, beaming.

"Do you two want to join us?" John asked, grateful for the new company to break up the monotonous morning.

Ivy smiled and nodded. John shuffled along the sofa as Ivy slid in next to him, with Sherlock silently sitting opposite. Even with his gaze focused on the other sofa, Sherlock could see the questions burning up inside the Geordie next to him. He suppressed his bored sigh and whipped out his mobile. He hadn't really planned on spending his time with – well, was she his… Furrowing his eyebrows, he just couldn't bring himself to think of that. He couldn't deny the attraction, but any sort of _label _almost made him run a mile. He looked back up at Ivy, who was listening intently to whatever John had to say. Obviously talking about his girl problems, in such a vague sense that he was clearly not close enough to Mike to trust him. Sherlock frowned slightly. Mike would have to be an idiot not to understand, anyway, so the vagueness was pointless.

"…I'm just a little nervous in case it goes stupidly horrible and I'm a big idiot," John mumbled, almost pleadingly. He stared at his discarded sandwich, waiting for Ivy's reply.

"John, I'm not an expert but I think you're probably going to _feel_ like an idiot if you don't do anything, anyway," was the response. There was a very slightly undertone of boredom in Ivy's dulcet voice – an undertone that only Sherlock noticed, it seemed. As much as she liked John, she had spent the best part of fifteen minutes listening to the self-loathing complains of his non-existent love life, and with that subject, fifteen minutes can feel like a very long time.

"So, so you think I should just go for it?"

Nodding, Ivy smiled reassuringly towards her friend. "I think it's probably the best thing."

John grinned back, like a weight had just vanished off his shoulders.

…

The science lab was growing darker by the minute around Sherlock's bright computer screen. He had taken the liberty of the Saturday night to get some extra research done, stealthily getting inside the university's laboratories. Technically, he had broken in, but it hadn't been anything of a challenge to him since no doors had actually been locked. It was just prohibited for students to use the _very_ expensive equipment without supervision.

He clicked the mouse through the data he had obtained previously, his analysing eyes shrouded in concentration. He had felt the need to be distracted from his racing mind, and what else was perfect for that than science? Science was logical. Science was understandable. Science was easy.

What wasn't logical, understandable or easy was Ivy.

He had accepted the fact that the young woman enraptured him. In fact, he definitely couldn't refute it. Her bedroom in his mind palace was almost full to its brink with evidence and data to support it. Plus, he had even asked her out _on a date_. He went _on a date_ with Ivy Coates. He accompanied said female to a restaurant, shared a pizza and almost kissed her. Almost. He had stopped himself. One of the things he didn't understand was why he had stopped himself. Perhaps he was scared to change things. Or maybe he just didn't want to.

He subconsciously shook his head. No, that definitely wasn't the reason. He unquestionably had wanted to. He had _implored_ himself to. Maybe it was the fear that, if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop. He wanted to hold her, touch her, kiss her every inch. He wanted to memorise every freckle and mole, every contour of her body. To breathe in nothing but her scent. To hear nothing but her sharp but feminine voice, breathy when she's moaning his name…

Sherlock tore himself away from the room in his mind and ventured down the corridor to the Science Gallery, focusing on his current research. Though, like a recurring visit to the refrigerator, he found himself back through the threshold and into Ivy's room once more. It was as if this room controlled all maps of his own mind palace. Like Ivy had become the centre of gravity.

Distractions wouldn't divert his thought pattern any longer. Still staring at the computer screen, he laced his slender fingers together and mentally locked himself in Ivy's room. He was just going to have to face his… problem. At the café that morning, he had shrugged the nagging confusion away and concentrated on the conversation and the behaviour of his companions. Mike hadn't said or done much, probably still a bit confused as to how Sherlock could deduce his conclusions, and John had switched from utterly perplexed to euphoric throughout the conversation. And Ivy… Sherlock had, without a doubt, noticed her eyes flicker over towards him more than a few times, accompanied with a scintilla smile. Dilated pupils: one of the signs of attraction.

The main thing he didn't understand is why he felt… was it fear? He couldn't even tell. He had scared himself at the café when he couldn't bring himself to even call Ivy his – Sherlock scowled into the light and pursed his lips – _girlfriend_. He cringed at himself. He didn't understand why he – they – should put a label on it. Who cares what people thought? Who cares what people called them, or each other? It doesn't make any difference.

But _was she_? He frowned. They had only been on one date – two, if you counted the rendezvous at the library.

"You sure are concentrating," a confident voice echoed through the laboratory, dragging Sherlock away from his mind palace. The main lights flicked on, causing Sherlock blink several times.

He turned towards the main entrance of the workroom, to find the petite posture of his biology lecturer.

Sherlock didn't say anything as Professor Overstreet sauntered up to him, the sound of her stilettos on the wooden floorboards reverberating, and leaned against the bench at his right. "Whatever you're working on must be incredibly _enthralling_."

Sherlock chuckled and, saving his work, switched off the computer. "One of my more boring experiments."

"Oh, well, you do know it is forbidden to use any of the equipment in here without a lecturer present, Mr. Holmes?"

"Of course, Professor – "

"Then I must order you to put anything and everything back in its proper place before I report you to the head of the department and the deans."

Sherlock turned back to the petri dishes on the bench, with an amused look splashed onto his face.

Overstreet laughed nervously. "What's so funny, Mr. Holmes?"

"I think you might not want to do that, Professor," Sherlock tittered.

"And why is that?"

"Because I know you sleep with most of your male students."

Taken aback, the professor stood straight, her eyes wide.

"Perhaps you should try to behave differently when interacting with those you've – to put it delicately – _had_. Sometimes, it's so dreadfully obvious I'm surprised no one else has noticed it too."

"Well," Overstreet took a step forward, "if that's what you want too – "

Sherlock interrupted her with a deep laugh. "No, thank you." Overstreet stopped dead. "But I won't say anything about your _seductions_."

"Oh?" Her voice quivered with fear of being exposed. "You won't?"

"No, I won't," Sherlock echoed, bored. "If you don't say anything about this experiment, and the experiments I _will_ do, using any equipment I want."

"And what makes you think I'll agree to that?"

Sherlock smirked, looking at the professor's fear stricken face. "Your job is the only stable thing in your life. You would hate to loose it."

Reluctantly, and with a grimace, Overstreet stiffly nods once, indicating her agreement. Satisfied, Sherlock stood tall, towering over his lecturer, and straightened out his tight-fitting shirt. He collected his coat from the back of the chair and left the laboratory, flicking off the main lights as he went.

* * *

><p><em>I'm sorry for not updating for a while but here's two new chapters! I've realised that perhaps the plot's going quite slow at the moment? I promise to try and speed the pace up a little - I'm aiming to get it all done in 30 chapters, and I have the outline of the plan all sorted out, so I'll just see where it goes.<em>

_Review? :-)_


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter 11

Ivy unlocked the door to her bedroom and slipped inside, allowing the darkness to swallow her. She felt drained as she exhaustedly slung her satchel onto the floor. Her seminars had been intense; deadlines and exams loomed in the near future, and her tutors weren't scared to remind her. Constantly.

Yawning slightly, she turned to the wall and flicked over the light switch, filling the square box with artificial light. Naturally, the dark, winter nights had crept up, with the sun retiring before half four every afternoon. Almost a month had passed since her first night at Oxford: almost a month of scrolling down essays, hidden behind piles of books and dictionaries in the library; of busying herself in between texts from a certain Sherlock Holmes.

She furrowed her eyebrows, digging for her phone. She sat on her bed as the bright screen lit up before her. Surprisingly, that same Sherlock Holmes hadn't sent her one text all day.

It had been a week since their first, and only, 'official' date. Ivy had thought it'd gone well – the conversation never fizzled out and she actually had a good time. Even when she – reluctantly – told Sherlock that snippet about her parents.

Her eyes snapped into focus. Of course, that must be what's caused this _snag_. No one should ever know about that, not even Sherlock Holmes. It was hard to keep it under a lid when she was a teenager, growing up, but here no one needs to know; a fresh start with it hidden away.

It had to be the reason why he didn't… well, he didn't kiss her and all he's done since was text her. They had met up of course but… maybe he just wanted to be friends? Was that what this is all about? Ivy's heart swelled at the thought, painfully.

Her mind didn't have time to wander too far when her mobile _pinged!_ suddenly, the screen lighting up. She couldn't hide her anticipation as she stared at her new text message.

_Hey, sis! Long time no speak? Must be having fun w/ your new friends!_

_Zach x_

Ivy groaned. Of course it hadn't been from Sherlock, her luck was never that timely. She looked back down to the text; it was the third from her older brother since she'd started university, and she had to admit that she was never in any hurry to reply to any of them.

Ever since their parents died, Zach had always been protective of her, even when he started his apprenticeship course at Shad Sanderson in London. Ivy couldn't remember a day when her mobile didn't buzz in her pocket during a class with the daily text from her big brother; it was always the same attempt to "catch up". Her sister, Luce, didn't reply to them, either. It seemed like the more texts Zach sent, the more distant Ivy felt – more distant from her family, more than anything. Luce dropped out of their sixth form shortly after Zach moved closer to London for his work, but Ivy focused all her energy on her studies. The better qualifications she had, the further she could go.

Her mobile _pinged!_ again. Half expecting another almost pleading text from Zach, she checked it and raised an eyebrow.

_You don't know Sherlock Holmes like I do._

Ivy stared at the message, puzzled. She didn't know who had sent it, or why. _You don't know Sherlock Holmes like I do. _The text mulled itself over in her mind. It seemed to grow darker every time she repeated it. _You don't know Sherlock Holmes like I do_.

How on earth did they get her number? She had only given it to Sherlock and John since the start of term. Who on earth would want to… _threaten_ her in the first place? Obviously she didn't know Sherlock. He had deduced almost everything about her but if she really thought about it, she didn't know anything about him. What did she actually know? She knew what he was studying, his room number, and how he liked his tea and coffee. He also smoked occasionally. And, naturally, she couldn't forget the fact that he was a high-functioning sociopath.

She furrowed her eyebrows, staring at the text once more. Whoever sent it seemed hell-bent on scaring her, but she wasn't going to give in that easily.

…

Sherlock scrolled down his notes as Professor Overstreet flicked through the slideshow before him, her voice ringing out into the theatre. He had strategically placed himself towards the back of the lecture theatre; after a few weeks of lectures and slideshow presentations, he had noticed repetition with 'revision' – something that Sherlock didn't find valuable for his own studies. Why 'revise' when he could remember, anyway? At least if was near the doors he could leave and not waste his time.

The last lecture of the day had lasted forty-five minutes already; Overstreet talked and stated the facts confidently in front of the class – apparently, her deal with Sherlock hadn't buckled her stride. As Sherlock glanced over the rows in front, he saw there were two more additions to her collection. He could always tell who had succumbed to Overstreet's power, by the way they always seemed to sit two rows closer to the front that before. They gawped up at the podium, oblivious to each other.

Chuckling to himself quietly, he turned his attention back to the slideshow. As he had predicted, his lecturer has changed the subject back to a quantitative method study, which had been gone over last week. Without reluctance, he made a point of packing his files back into his bag and rose from his seat. He strode out of his row of seats and, not caring about the noise, slammed himself through the swing doors, ignoring the glares of annoyance from his peers.

The winter sun had set half way through the lecture, matting the campus with bitter darkness. He popped the collar on his coat, wrapping himself tightly, and made his way towards his room's building, whipping out his mobile gracefully. His inbox was empty of unread messages, and there were no missed calls. He frowned slightly at his lack of popularity but still stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He considered sending a message to Ivy, but he estimated that it would take 2.9 minutes for her reply, and it would take less than that to arrive at her room.

Despite the short distance, for some reason, however, it felt like hours until he found himself climbing those stairs. He couldn't understand it. He _wanted_ to see her. He _implored _to see her. He had never wanted anything as much in his life – not even his place at Oxford. Or his skull. Or his violin.

As he reached her door, he puffed his cheeks out and straightened his coat, ignoring his surging pulse. His mind palace was leading him back up to Ivy's quarters – he had thought so much about her that one room wasn't big enough. Maybe he was… _scared_. Scared of the future? Scared of the _relationship_? He had never done anything like this before now – unless you count Jim Moriarty. No, Jim was a bit of fun – that definitely wasn't one of those 'relationships' that are in films these days. Sherlock could say, hand on heart, that towards Jim Moriarty, he didn't feel anything like he felt towards Ivy.

But did she feel the same way? Her body language had definitely given away that she was _attracted_ to him, but did she feel anything more than mere attraction? Sherlock felt an unfamiliar heart-wrench in his chest. He furrowed his eyebrows together. Perhaps that was what he was _afraid_ of all this time…

His facial expression altered quickly, with a slight smile at his conclusive epiphany. He rapped twice on the wooden door before him.

…

Ivy jumped a little at the sound of the knock at her door. She closed her laptop's lid and hastily glanced at her phone – no more texts like before. After the night she'd had, she didn't know who to expect to be in the corridor; she even half expected Zach to have made a 'surprise visit' just to see if she was alright. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she reached forward for the handle and carefully opened the door.

Relief washed over her as the tall figure stood before her, his arms behind his back, with a tiny grin on his face.

"What are you smirking at?" Ivy jokingly asked, opening the door wide enough for Sherlock to enter.

"Oh, nothing," he replied, closing the door behind him. "I just came to a conclusion, that's all."

"An experiment?"

"Of sorts," Sherlock unbuttoned his coat and, with a short glance around the room, he elegantly slipped out of it and placed it on Ivy's desk chair.

Ivy glanced over at him, laughing quietly.

Sherlock shot her a confused look. "What?" His voice was defensive.

Laughter took over the brunette in front of him. "_Oh, nothing_," she parroted, leaning against her desk as Sherlock settled himself on her bed. "Hey, do you fancy doing something tonight?" She ventured, casually.

"What did you have in mind?"

Ivy shrugged, thinking for a moment. "How about going down to the pub?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "The pub?"

"You know, the bar."

The perplexed expression didn't lift.

"The _pub_, Sherlock! The place where people go to socialise over drinks? A bit like a café but with alcohol? More casual than a nightclub?" Ivy quizzed, surprised. "You do know what I'm on about, don't you?"

"Yes," was the quick response, "once."

"Once?"

"It was quite over crowded with unnecessarily stupid people, and loud," he drawled, his voice bored. "Not somewhere I wish to go to again."

Ivy let out a small laugh. "Not every pub in the country is like that," she replied, her full lips drifting upwards into her own smirk. She grabbed her coat and – hesitantly – her phone before wrapping her fingers around Sherlock's slender wrist and pulling him up from her bed. "Come on, I'll show you."

…

Enveloped closely in their coats, the pair strolled the twists and turns through the city of Oxford, the winter wind brushing their skins with a bitter sting. Iron wrought streetlamps twisted up and illuminated that familiar golden glow, casting shadows behind the chained bicycles and the over the sandstone buildings.

As they walked, much to Ivy's surprise, nervousness washed away, blending with the lamplight. If she had been walking along side the same gentleman with Heathcliff hair and cutting cheekbones one year before, she couldn't have been able to breath through the choking lump in her throat – but, strangely, now, that lump was long gone. She didn't understand it, but she wasn't going to fight it.

The inches between the pair shrunk gradually until it was merely centimetres; they rounded the last corner and The Eagle and Child came into view, it's sign wavering in a ghostly sway. Once a haunt for writers like Lewis and Tolkien, the pub immediately gained some kudos for Ivy, who was determined to share it with the sceptical Sherlock Holmes.

Inside, it was small, but cosy, with a pleasant amount of people – regulars, tourists, students, the same range as always. Luckily, as they clambered through the traditional doors, a booth to their right became free as two drunken elderly men scrambled out past them. Silently, Sherlock helped Ivy slide across the cushioned seat before following her himself.

Ivy tried to bite back a small giggle; Sherlock glanced at her, a little annoyed, but curious.

"Are you going to get the drinks?" she asked, beckoning over to the slightly crowded bar.

The confused flash across Sherlock's sharp face was almost too much to bear.

"That's what you do at pubs – you go up and order. It's not like a restaurant," Ivy explained, as delicately as she could. She knew Sherlock liked to be the one in control, and watching him sitting there next to her was like watching a fish out of water. "Just think of it like the café on campus… but with alcohol and people other than students."

Surprisingly, or rather quite unsurprisingly, Sherlock gave her a confident smirk. He stood of straight, casually unbuttoned his coat, and ventured out of the booth.

For someone who hadn't the least bit social skills and who had allegedly never been to a pub like this one, he definitely didn't show it. Of course he didn't, he's Sherlock Holmes. As Ivy watched, she repeated it over in her head. It had become an excuse used a lot, lately: "He's Sherlock Holmes, _of course_ he can do that"; "_Of course_ Sherlock Holmes knows that". But it was true. Mesmerizingly, he could adapt himself to any situation required. She watched as he confidently ordered their drinks and exchange the money, before he sauntered back over to the booth.

"Well done!" She jokingly patted him on the back as he slid in beside her again. She sipped on her chilled Coke and vodka.

"It isn't entirely difficult, Ivy," Sherlock couldn't help but let his cupid-bow lips curve upwards slightly.

Ivy giggled again, as she tucked her hair behind her ear. She didn't know how long she and Sherlock had spent folded away, talking incessantly. It was mainly Sherlock who spoke – but that was what Ivy preferred. She loved hearing all about Sherlock's recent experiments and his endless opinions, and Sherlock didn't seem to mind his own regular rants. Every so often he'd pause to take a sip on his Coke and Ivy took this as her cue to ask him something else. He was relentlessly fascinating. Though more often than not, her subconscious kept flashing back to that text. _You don't know Sherlock Holmes like I do_. Well, the more she asked, the more he would tell. She always bit her tongue whenever she ventured to tell Sherlock about the text, however.

Sherlock was mid-way through explaining his findings behind his grandfather's loafers, bleach and a curling iron experiment, which he conducted when he was nine years old, when the traditional front door swung open, and with it emerged a lanky figure and his clinging girlfriend. As soon as they stepped through the threshold, Sherlock rolled his eyes as Anderson smugly sauntered up to the bar, his designer wallet in his hand. Behind him, Sally Donovan hovered, looking for a free booth. Her eyes didn't acknowledge Sherlock or Ivy and she reluctantly settled on the spot where she stood. Ivy and Sherlock watched in unison, either subconsciously or for humour, as she was joined once more by Anderson, who checked his phone regularly: he was obviously waiting for his friends.

The conceited rugby player had, as Sherlock noted, checked his phone twelve times as Donovan rambled on, craving his attention, when the door swung open once more; Greg Lestrade and Sebastian Wilkes roamed into the small pub.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as he noted Lestrade's instant acknowledgment of Ivy, who seemed to be a little bored of seeing the puppy-dog figure almost everywhere she went. Nevertheless, she smiled back but shifted her entire body away from the bar, and more towards Sherlock.

Even Ivy saw the quick smirk that enlightened Sherlock's sharp gaze.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom, why don't you go and order some more drinks?" She suggested, before leaning close to Sherlock's ruler-sharp cheekbone and gracefully brushed her lips his smooth skin.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "You don't have to do that, he's not looking."

For a second, Ivy furrowed her eyebrows. She understood almost immediately, though, and gave him a sweet smile. "I know."

She stood and made her way to the bathroom, adjusting her skirt on the way. She didn't know what had brought on the sudden change of behaviour, but she wasn't going to complain. She couldn't explain it but she felt… _confident_. Maybe it was the thought of two boys maybe liking her? Greg made it obvious but Sherlock… in his _own_ way, he was showing it. She just needed to maybe play along side him.

Surprisingly, the bathroom was deserted. She found her favourite lipstick in her skirt pocket and applied it, rouging her cupid-bow. As she ruffled her already tousled waves, the door opened with that familiar public-toilet creak.

Sally Donovan moseyed in, her head held high and her heels clacking on the tiles. Ivy smiled, a little uncertain. Sally mirrored her, and freshened up her own make-up. Every so often, Ivy caught her glancing at her in the mirror.

"You're Ivy Coates, aren't you?" Sally finally broke the silence.

"Oh, um, yeah, hi."

"You're with the freak." It was more of statement than a question.

"The freak?" Ivy gave her a confused glance.

"The mind reader. Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. Will can't stand him," Sally let out a chuckle.

Ivy didn't respond; she put her lipstick back in her pocket and made her way to the door.

"Have you had sex with him yet?"

She stopped in her tracks. Sally was staring at her through the mirror.

"You know," Sally went on, "have you _sealed the deal_?"

"I don't think that's any of your business, do you?" Hostility gushed through Ivy's veins.

"So you haven't. Thought so. But, hey, you can be frigid if you want – " Ivy narrowed her eyes. " – You know, Greg really likes you…"

"I know."

Silence consumed them. It bit at them so much it was hard to breathe. It was claustrophobic.

"He can't see that I don't like him back," Ivy added.

"Yeah, he can be blind to that sort of thing. We grew up together and he went through a little phase with me sometime during secondary school. Took me a while to get the message that I wasn't interested through his head," Sally laughed, reapplying her mascara, "but in the end I just told him the truth." She turned and looked at Ivy straight. "Maybe that's what you should do, Ivy."

Ivy flashed her eyes down at the sparkling white tiles for a moment while Sally tottered past her, back to being ignored by her boyfriend. She stared at herself in the mirror once more, feeling oppressed anger and frustration fuel that unfamiliar confidence. She tried to ignore it, and found herself meandering back to Sherlock and the booth near the door.

She shuffled back in as Sherlock pushed her new Coke and vodka towards her with his index finger. Ivy knew he had probably figured out that someone had happened between her and Sally Donovan, so she told him before he asked her.

"Obviously I'm just going to ignore her, though," she added afterwards. "She was just being… argumentative, I guess."

Sherlock gave her a small nod, shifting his gaze around the room. Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade and Sebastian Wilkes were huddled in a group at the bar, almost straight ahead in his line of sight. His mind was intently running through everything Ivy and told him; Donovan was trying to help her, by maintaining the we're-not-friends persona. That was obvious. Ivy doesn't like Lestrade more than friends. That was a good thing. But was Ivy… was Ivy wanting him to sleep with her? Sex wasn't a mystery to Sherlock, though almost everyone thought it was. He knew the chemistry, the biology, and the anatomy of it. He knew the methods. He knew when it was pleasure and he knew when it wasn't pleasure. And if someone needed proof, they could just ask Sandra Wilcox on his year eleven prom night, or Lindsay Miles who worked a café near his family's mansion, or Ben Reid on a drunken night at boarding school, or Eden Walker at a family garden party, or Jim Moriarty, who was everywhere. And he couldn't deny that he wanted it with Ivy. How could he _not_ want it, with her gorgeous curves and always-windswept waves? – even with her sitting next to him, less than half a metre away, was… driving him crazy.

Luckily, before he could act on instinct, his thoughts were interrupted: Lestrade had given up on stealing glances across the bar to the light brunette. He wandered over to the booth, and Sherlock knew exactly what he was going to ask.

"Hey Ivy, fancy a drink?" The question was rushed.

Ivy blinked. She wished she could say she was surprised.

"She's already got one, thanks," the cool, baritone voice murmured beside her.

"Oh, well, I was wondering if she would like to have another one?" He wouldn't give up.

"Sorry, Greg, but I'm kind of here _with _Sherlock and he's already bought me a drink," Ivy attempted, faltering at a smile.

Sherlock cut his eyes away from Lestrade to see Anderson swagger over, an expression of mock concern plastered over his jeering face.

"What, er, seems to be the problem?" He hauled a hand over Lestrade's shoulder.

"There wasn't any problem until you disturbed our night," Sherlock curtly replied. Ivy didn't bother to look shocked at her companion's behaviour. In fact, she smirked.

Anderson stared at him. "Oi, freak, fancy saying that to my face?"

"As I recall, I already did."

"Well, fucking _stand up_ and say it!"

Annoyed, Sherlock let out a huge sigh. Nonetheless, he pulled himself up and moved so he was stood tall in front of Anderson, his upper-lip align with Anderson's narrowed eyes. "Why don't you just go back to your favourite internet porn site?" A knowing grin was unable to keep away from his lips.

Without warning, knucklebone collided with cheekbone with a terrifying crunch. Ivy watched in horror as Sherlock staggered back, clutching his tortured cheek as Anderson clasped his hand. Both kept standing, it wasn't over. Anderson stepped forward, his hand in a clasped fist once more. The swing missed Sherlock's cheek but landed on his temple, breaking the skin. Red oozed out and toned the enflaming skin. Sherlock dabbed the tender skin with a steady hand, his eyebrow cocked and a half-smile playing upon his face.

Anderson stared, confused. "You – you want some more, freak?" He stammered. Normally, his victims would be on the floor by now.

"No, no," Sherlock laughed, mockingly. "That's all for now, thank you."

To everyone's utter surprise, he spun on his heel, picked up his coat and headed for the door, giving Ivy a certain glance.

Ivy was still in utter shock. As the door swung closed, she gave herself a small shake and picked up her own coat. She felt a rushing need to catch up with the tall, recently beaten silhouette. In fact, she ran. Her breath formed in short, misty clouds with every pant she drew and her fast steps echoed in the street. She focused on nothing. Nothing, but the dishevelled figure before her, striding away from her.

"Sherlock!" She shouted, almost breathless, finally catching up to him. She grabbed his coat sleeve and pulled him back, forcing him to look at her. His moonlight skin was already bruising and his ice eyes widened. All of a sudden, without thinking, she yanked him closer, roughly crushing her lips on his.

Only for a second, Sherlock winced, before the ice thawed. They melted together, matching like jigsaw pieces; Ivy unhanded the itchy fabric of Sherlock's coat, subconsciously moving her fingers up to his tight curls. She felt a soft but gripping hand cup her jawline whilst the other pressed the small of her back, firmly. All she could smell was Sherlock and all she could feel was Sherlock. He held her tightly, their lips moving together. They were a postcard for Montmartre. He slipped his velveteen tongue forward. All coherent thoughts were gone, they had burnt up with desire.

* * *

><p><em>Gosh, it's been a while, hasn't it? Have to say I am sorry it's taken me aaaaaages to update, but with exams and everything I just didn't have the time. But, I only have two exams left and then I have two more weeks of study leave - hopefully, I'll be able to, like, dedicate my time to catching up with this... I already have an idea for a sequel!<em>  
><em>Anyway, read and review? :-)<em>


	12. Chapter Twelve

_This is just a little warning: the following chapter is mainly very... smutty. Just thought I'd warn y'all in case you get offended or anything! I'm a bit unsure about it all, actually... please read and review and tell me what you think? :-)_

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 12<span>

Ivy suppressed a yelp as her back collided sharply with the door handle of her room. Instead, she let out a moan into the kiss. She could feel Sherlock rummage through her pockets for her key, one hand never leaving her tousled tresses, his lips never leaving hers.

Finally the lock clicked, the door swinging open. Luckily, her grip in those illustrious dark curls stopped her from stumbling backwards too much. The door slammed shut, the bang ricocheting through the building but neither cared. Sherlock forced her further into the room, tactically manoeuvring their intense entanglement towards her bed. With every step backwards, she leaned further into the kiss, matching his force, crushing herself further against him. She loosened her hands' grip, sliding her hands down the curve of his neck, feeling for that unnecessary jacket. It landed in a heap by their staggering feet, discarded.

Further down, her hands made their way, clasping for the buttons that guarded the wall between their skin. She clawed at them, hurriedly trying to undo them – until she felt a soft touch, from Sherlock's pianist fingers. He replaced her attempts, his ravishing tongue regaining the control between Ivy's lips. Almost instinctively, she reached down and unbuttoned her own blouse, heat releasing and her flushed skin reacting with the colder air.

Unless she imagined it, she could sense Sherlock's lips curving into a scintilla smirk, his control driving her backwards once more. She grasped everywhere she could that was him – his bruising face, his chest, his open shirt. With one tug, that too fell to the floor, joining the other abandoned clothes.

She knew he could feel her _want_, her desperate _need_, but the longing was too much for her. All of a sudden, the edge of the bed struck her calves, casting a bruising throbbing up through her body; she tumbled back, grudgingly breaking the deep kiss, and landed with a sharp gasp on the mattress.

Hesitance mustn't be part of Sherlock's vocabulary, especially once he has defined himself as determined. He didn't waste time to lean down over her, bypassing her wanting mouth to roughly caress her throat, his tongue dancing over her windpipe. Ivy inhaled abruptly, and he groaned noisily, gutturally, as she meandered her hands down his chest and abdomen. Just as she found his leather belt, he bit, into her blushing skin – she gasped, moaning softly. She extended her neck in an impulse, one hand failing to clutch Sherlock's pelvic skin in sharp pleasure.

He bit again, this time more roughly, one long-fingered hand holding onto her jugular, his tender skin radiating control. It was penetrating, pure euphoria. The other snaked and strolled across her curves, taunting with faint grazes, over her lace bra. He nibbled at her windpipe, hums sending indulging vibrations, sensitive kisses moving his aim towards the side of her neck. As he delved his roaming hand under, reaching for the clasp, he attacked with his teeth once more; electrifying ecstasy forced Ivy to arch her back, the bow-like stance allowing Sherlock to remove her pointless underwear.

His hand clasped itself on her left breast as their lips moulded together once more. He teased and tormented, his fingers playing with her nipple – Ivy implored for more. Painfully slow, he lightly dragged his index finger down her ribcage, her stomach muscles rippling in surprise. His touch was cool, but it burnt her in the winter temperature. She tried to keep her breathing under control, the anticipation of longing taking her breath away – literally. She could feel Sherlock's tongue explore hers as they kissed and kissed. He had the control. She was his. That was how it was.

She failed to notice his finger detour past, down her inner thigh as Sherlock's frantic lips moved to her jawline, collarbone, ribcage, and finally her abdomen, his velvet tongue claiming every bit of flushed skin he could find. Her eyes shut tightly, savouring the exultant feeling, as Sherlock slid her satin panties down to her knees.

That devious index finger twisted itself back up her inner thigh, so faintly Ivy definitely wasn't sure if she was imagining it. Unexpectedly, it found its destination, sending tantalising waves through Ivy's spine. Her breathing quickened, back arching, writhing in euphoric excitement.

Sherlock, with one hand on her waist to hold her still as she thrashed steadily, kissed the inside of her thigh, his lips tormenting her. His eyes flashed hungrily as he made his way upward; he kissed and licked, feeding off Ivy's moans and whimpers, exploring deep between her thighs.

Wave after wave of pure desire and indulging bliss crashed through her, rendering her boneless. She was panting, feeling it build up within her.

"Sher… " She faltered, "I'm.. I'm…"

Sherlock's grip tightened on her waist as he licked harder and burrowed his fingers deeper, mirrored by Ivy's intensifying hold on the bedspread, her knuckles whitening. She was almost there, the edge so close when –

_K-nock, k-nock!_

Sherlock bolted up, still holding Ivy's waist. Her pale skin was flushed, her eyes cloudy and terribly aroused, breathing heavily. "Was that the door?" she breathed, almost inaudibly, reaching for her duvet or a pillow.

To answer her question, Sherlock stood tall, still topless, and strode over to the door. "You might want to cover yourself up," he said, only to turn to see she already had done so.

The automatic lock shifted as he opened the door, revealing a timid blonde in a green woollen dress. She looked up at Sherlock with an expression of utter confusion.

"Sherlock? Have I got the wrong room?" Her voice was mouse-like, timorous.

"No." He stepped aside. His voice was dripping in reluctance. Ivy was sure he wanted to close the door in her face and get back to… well, what they were doing before the interruption. And Ivy couldn't deny that part of her wanted him to do that exact thing as well.

The blonde stepped through the threshold, pulling along a small pink suitcase. Ivy watched, still trying to control her breathing, with her eyebrows raised.

"Are you my estranged roommate?" She ventured to ask, shocking the surprise visitor.

"Oh, yes, hi, I didn't see you there," she gave a shy smile. Her eyes told Ivy that she knew she had interrupted something... she was almost apologetic. Almost. "My name's Molly Hooper."


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

"Sherlock what's happened to your _face_?" Molly gasped, turning to look at Sherlock _properly_ for the first time that night. He had just buttoned up his shirt, passing Ivy her own blouse. Not wanting to seem perplexed, he casually dabbed his wounds and bruises lightly, flinching slightly.

"He got into a fight, Molly," Ivy explained for him, quickly re-dressing herself. "I don't know if you know, er, Will Anderson but Sherlock's already merited himself an intimate relationship with his fist." She couldn't help but give Sherlock a knowing grin.

"A misunderstanding, that's all."

Molly glanced at Sherlock, and back at Ivy. A look of… jealousy? etched itself across the shy smile, but only for a second.

"Oh, I'll just shift all my shit for you…" Ivy, once dressed again, hurried to the other side of the box-like room. Several books and cardigans had somehow made a new home on the once spare bed, as well as the excess of space her toiletries had had the luxury of in the adjoining bathroom.

"So, erm, Sherlock… I, erm, didn't know you had a girlfriend?" Whatever casual demeanor Molly was trying to achieve bypassed her tone.

Without even glancing at her, Sherlock checked his phone and replied simply, "I'm surprised at that, Molly."

"Well, you know how it is! Not living in halls really puts you in the middle of things!" She laughed nervously, her eyes glancing at Sherlock looking for approval.

Both Sherlock and Ivy glanced at her, not understanding what she meant. The silence of responses told her what she most feared.

"I was being, er… I was being sarcastic," she added quietly.

Sherlock nodded once in acknowledgment. He settled himself on Ivy's bed as Molly bashfully started to unpack her own things. The silence only appeared to bother the nervous blonde, since the others appeared to go ahead and ignore it. Was it Sherlock or – what was her name? Ivy? – that caused this quiet, or both together? How could two humans be completely comfortable with each other that neither had to speak?

Ivy strolled out of the bathroom, and immediately spotted Sherlock's coat in a heap on the floor. Right where she had pushed it off those round shoulders. She sighed loudly, catching Sherlock's attention as she picked it up and threw it at him. With a sharp-reflexed catch, her… _boyfriend_ is probably a good term for it by now, she thought, folded it neatly and placed it back on the floor.

"Really, Sherlock?" Ivy shook her head in disbelief. She let it slide, though, and joined him on her bed, reaching for a packet of cigarettes from her shelf.

"Oh, I thought there was no smoking in halls…?" Molly risked.

"There isn't, but it's far too cold to go outside," Ivy said, surprising herself. There was just something about being with Sherlock that gave her a little… confidence. She lit herself one and passed the packet to Sherlock who helped himself. "I deactivated the smoke alarm as soon as it got cold. Want one?"

Molly shook her head instantly. She went back to unpacking her suitcase, sorting each item into their specified places.

Sherlock watched her as he smoked. Molly had seemed genuinely surprised to see him opening the door – of course, she knew him from the lectures they shared. And Sherlock had noted the attraction she had for him. She always tried to hide it, and she always failed. Thankfully, she hadn't tried to do anything about it. She was too scared.

"So, Molly, how come you're only moving in now?" Ivy asked her, reaching over to pull her ashtray out of a drawer.

Molly blushed, her cheeks reddening. "I just wanted to live with my aunt for a while… because she was a little ill."

"Oh… is she better now?"

"Well, the chemo's working…"

Ivy felt her own cheeks flush slightly. She had stepped on a landmine.

"If the chemo is working, Molly, why is your aunt in the hospital?" Sherlock brashly pointed out.

"Sherlock," Ivy warned.

Molly was taken aback, on the spot. She faltered, stammering her reply before Sherlock continued;

"Well, I don't know how you two can't smell it but it's clear Molly has spent hours in a hospital – that's probably why she missed lectures yesterday. And also why she's had to move in now. No one to look after you – "

Before he could see his damage, Molly's eyes swell and she ran into the bathroom. The door closed abruptly, rattling the entire wall.

Ivy burnt holes in Sherlock's black-and-blue face with annoyance. "Well done."

From the look on Sherlock's face, he didn't understand what had just happened. He tore his gaze away from the wooden bathroom door and stared intensely back at Ivy. Even through the greyish smoke from his cigarette, he could see he had disappointed her. Her pursed lips and furrowed eyebrows told him that. She finally broke the staring contest, sighed and went over to the bathroom, knocking on the door.

"Molly, are you ok?"

The answer was muffled but she could make out something along the lines of, "yeah, just need to be alone."

Ivy was about to reply, when she felt Sherlock stand behind her, his chest _almost_ touching her back.

"Upstairs is most probably empty." The statement sounded almost like a question. Maybe a command.

Ivy turned to look at him. He had wrapped himself up again, in his dark coat, despite the central heating. "Actually, Sherlock," she began, beckoning at the bathroom door, "I think I'll just stay and see if she's alright."

Sherlock stared at her, confused. "Problem?"

"No, I just think I should stay," she said, standing her ground.

One of Sherlock's eyebrows cocked. However, he leant down and gently pressed his lips onto hers, before pulling away. "I'll come and see you in the morning."

…

His room was pitch black before light leaked in from the hallway as Sherlock unlocked the door and entered.

"And I was beginning to think you'd never show." The voice sang out from the dark, dripping mockery.

Sherlock sighed loudly, flicking on the light. "What are you doing here?"

Jim Moriarty let out a low chuckle, sitting up on Sherlock's bed. "I think we both know the answer to that." With a graceful flick of his wrist, a transparent packet pranced onto the bedside table. Pure white powder compacted in its plastic walls.

Sherlock stared at it, not saying a word. He tore his eyes away, fighting his enticed vision. He didn't need it – not anymore. It was all in his past. He strolled over to the window, intently focusing his attention on his surroundings. The campus was deadly silent. The nearest streetlight needed repainted. There were three people in a lit up room opposite who were drunkenly starting a threesome. Four windows along from that, there was what looked like an English student fixedly typing on his laptop, surrounded by books.

Jim carried on, lining up the snow-white powder with a credit card – a stolen one, Sherlock noted out of the corner of his eye.

"Come on, Sherlock, you can't ignore me forever."

Slowly, Sherlock turned, his scowl cutting at Jim's dark, round eyes. "How would you know?" He asked, darkly.

The other smirked, casually making another line. Sherlock watched, his hands curling into fists, his eyes scorching with anger, and temptation.

"It's only mephedrone, anyway. I'm saving the serious stuff for…" Jim let out a small laugh. "Well, you and your _big brother_ don't need to know that, do you?"

Sherlock didn't move. He watched as Jim's devilish grin faded away. Finally, Jim stood, brushing down his neat suit. Stare met stare as the distance between the pair shrank, the air getting more claustrophobic.

"Is this because of that _girl_?" Jim asked, as soon as he was standing in front of Sherlock. When he spoke, the letters curled.

"Jealous Jim," Sherlock mocked, standing tall. Jim's eyes followed him, black as tar.

"Not at all," Jim retorted. "And do you know why?"

Bored, Sherlock answered, "Ah, please, _do tell_."

"Because I know you can't stay away it. From those _highs_. Those spectacular, glorious, _enriching_ highs. No matter how hard you try, Sherlock, you just can't stop yourself. Look at you, for fuck's sake. I know it's killing you. So just cut the shit and just do what I say."

"No."

Jim scowled. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I not make myself clear enough for you, bitch?"

Sherlock sighed loudly, rolling his eyes. "As a matter of fact, you did. But I don't want to do that anymore." It was exhausting to keep his cool, to fight that growing longing. That familiar crave. He didn't understand where it was coming from – he had been fine all year, since he met up with Jim that first week. He hadn't needed his usual fix. Maybe it was because he hadn't been as… bored as before. Mainly because of Ivy. His lips flickered into a smile before he realized it.

"It is because of her. What was her name, again? Ivy? I wouldn't mind a bit of her. A girl with a waist like that _must_ know how to fuck – "

Before he knew it, Sherlock's gripping hand was clenched at his throat, holding tightly onto his tie and collar. The sudden violence rendered Jim hysterical, laughter filling the square room until Sherlock put him down.

"And you call me 'jealous'. You really are quite stupid, Sherlock Holmes." The hatred and annoyance in Jim's voice was obvious. Sherlock watched as he stalked towards the window, checking his phone. "I sure do wish I could stay longer, but duty calls." And with that, he climbed down the drainpipe.

Alone, Sherlock slammed the window shut, disregarding Jim's disappearing silhouette. He collapsed himself on his bed, growling to himself. At least he had fought, and taken the high road with Jim Moriarty. Something told him in his gut that he wouldn't be hearing the end of it, though.

He shuffled so he was facing into the room; almost immediately, his eyes fell onto those snowy lines, as bold as brass, across, ironically, a FRANK leaflet. As hard as he tried, he couldn't tear his gaze away from them. He couldn't just leave them, because _someone_ would find them. Inevitably. Most likely would be Seb, if he came back from wherever he was. Or Ivy.

Sherlock's stomach flipped. He definitely couldn't allow Ivy to find them. She had no idea about his… past. His teenage years. The only clue she's had has been Jim, and Sherlock was positive that she hadn't figured it out from the two minutes she spent in the same company with him. And he couldn't fathom how she would react if she did find out. Apart from the smoking and the occasional drink, it was obvious Ivy had never had any affiliation with... hard drugs.

Perhaps it was his temptation that won him over, but it was the only logical solution of his little dilemma. He tried to control his breathing as he tightly rolled up a piece of scrap paper, settling himself comfortably. Each line disappeared with grace, the familiar euphoria washing over him.

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><p><em>New chapter! I have to give a big <strong>thank you<strong> to all you who have read, reviewed, and added this to their favourites and story alerts! _

_Review? :-)_


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